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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

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/    .       ^J  CKJ04^^<r\^ 


ENGLISH    PROSE 

H.    CRAIK 

VOL.   IV 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


ENGLISH    PROSE 


SELECTIONS 


WITH  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTIONS 

BY  VARIOUS  WRITERS 

AND  GENERAL  INTRODUCTIONS  TO  EACH  PERIOD 


EDITED    BY 

HENRY    CRAIK 


A^OL.    IV 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


ILoHtion 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND    NEW    YORK 
1894 

All  rij^hts  reserved 


PR 

1215 

V.Lj- 


CONTENTS 


The  Editor 


George  Saintsbiiry 


Introduction 

CONYERS    MiDDLETON 

The  First  Triumvirate  ..... 

Letter  to  Venn  ...... 

A  Defence  of  Free  Enquiry  in  Religion 

Bishop  Berkeley  .  .  .         George  Saintsbiiry 

The  Advantages  of  Inimateriahsm 
The  Virtues  of  Vice      ..... 
The  Delusions  of  Sense  .... 

The  Pebble  Argument  answered  by  Anticipation 

William  Law       .  .  .  .        J.  H.  Overton 

Confirmation     . 
Character  of  Ouranius 
The  Fall  of  Adam 
The  Atonement 
Divine  Knowledge 

Samuel  Richardson        .  .  .       J.  H.  Millar 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 
Mr.  Lovelace  to  John  Belford,  Esq.     . 
Mr.  Belford  to  Robert  Lovelace,  Esq. 

Bishop  Butler     ....       James  Bonar 
The  Habit  of  Casual  Reading  .... 
Actions  Natural  and  Unnatural 
Self-love  and  Appetites  .... 


13 
17 
19 

22 

25 
29 

31 

34 
36 

41 
44 
46 

49 

52 
54 

57 
59 
61 

63 

67 
69 

70 

71 


■tQ9«/10A 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


Providence  punishes  Vice,  and  mitigates  the  Punishment 
The  Argument  from  Probaliility  in  Religion     . 
The  Practical  Rule  of  Conduct 
The  Burden  of  Much  Talkinc: 


Lord  Chesterfield 
Manners  makyth  Man 
The  Falsehood  of  Commonplaces 
A  Good  and  a  Bad  Style 
Voltaire 

William  Warburton 

Language  helped  by  Action 
How  to  meet  Attacks  . 
God's  Moral  Government 

John  Wesley 

A  Man  of  One  Book     . 

On  Dress 

On  the  Results  of  Methodism 

Henry  Fielding  . 

The  Passengers  to  Hades 

Poet  and  Player 

A  Political  Microcosm 

Partridge  on  Valour 

Paternal  Advice 

Mrs.  Francis  of  Ryde    . 

The  Give-and-Take  of  Friendship 

The  Qualifications  of  the  Historian 

Samuel  Johnson  . 
Critics  . 
Good  Humour  . 
Pedantry 

Travellers'  Affectations 
Praises  of  Solitude 
Conversation     . 


The  Editor 


Macneile  Dixon 


J.  H.  Overton 


Ge 


■orge  Saintslntry 


The  Editor 


CONTENTS 

vii 

PAGE 

Style 

i6i 

English  Literature 

163 

The  Flying  Machine     . 

165 

Poetry  ..... 

168 

A  Life  according  to  Nature 

171 

The  Loss  of  a  Friend    . 

173 

Metaphysical  Poets 

175 

Milton  .... 

177 

Religious  Poetry 

178 

Dryden  as  Critic 

180 

A  Digression     . 

182 

A  Task  completed 

I  S3 

Letter  to  Lord  Cliesterfield 

184 

David  Hume 

/.  H.  Millar 

1S7 

A  Defence  of  Philosophy 

189 

King  and  Parliament    . 

195 

Character  of  Himself    . 

202 

Where  Philosophy  is  helpless  . 

203 

The  State's  Interest  in  Stored  Labour 

204 

Reason  no  Aid  to  Religion 

205 

Laurence  Sterne 

H.  D.  Traill 

207 

My  Uncle  Toby's  Siege  Operations 

211 

The  Death  of  Bobby     . 

213 

Corporal  Trim  and  the  Curate 

216 

Tristram  and  the  Ass    . 

217 

A  Franciscan  Monk 

219 

Thomas  Gray 

John  IV.  Hales 

221 

To  Grasmere    . 

225 

By  Ingleborough  to  Gordale  Scar 

227 

Netley  Abbey  . 

230 

A  Sunrise 

231 

Horace  Walpole 

W.  P.  Key 

233 

A  Summary  of  the  Progress  of  Taste 

.         238 

Hogarth's  Genius 

239 

VUl 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


PAGE 

Character  of  Pitt 

240 

Alpine  Scenery  :  The  Grande 

Chartreuse 

242 

The  War  :  Burke 

244 

Old  Age  :  France  :  Madame  D'Arblay 

245 

Gilbert  White    . 

Norman  Moore     . 

247 

Migration  of  Birds 

249 

Miscellaneous  Observations 

251 

On  the  Flight  of  Birds 

253 

The  Fern-Owl  . 

255 

The  Rook 

255 

Tobias  Smollett  . 

George  Saintsbury 

257 

Roderick  at  Surgeon's  Hall 

261 

Sir  Launcelot  in  the  INIadhouse 

265 

The  Cheerful  Society  of  Bath 

269 

William  Robertson 

William  Wallace 

273 

The  Death  of  Rizzio     . 

278 

The  Reformation 

280 

The  Feudal  System      . 

282 

Resignation  of  a  Crown 

284 

Columbus  nearing  Land 

288 

Montezuma 

290 

Richard  Price     . 

J.  Bonnr  . 

293 

Do  our  Faculties  deceive  us  ? 

295 

The  Effects  of  Custom  . 

296 

The  Vision  of  the  World 

296 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds     . 

Reginald  Brimky  Johnso 

I        299 

Michael  Angelo 

. 

303 

Maxims  of  Art 

312 

Beauty  . 

314 

Johnson  against  Garrick 

314 

Adam  Smith 

/.  Bonar  . 

317 

Humour 

320 

The  Aspect  of  Nature  to  the 

Savage 

321 

CONTENTS 

ix 

PAGE 

How  Art  produces  its  Effects   ..... 

322 

Remorse            ....... 

323 

The  Supreme  Tribunal  of  Conduct       .... 

325 

Power  sacrificed  to  Selfishness               .... 

326 

Public  Benefit  promoted  by  Individual  Aims   . 

327 

Thomas  Warton  ....         Tlie  Editor 

329 

Feudalism         ....... 

332 

Chaucer's  House  of  Fame         ..... 

333 

Gower's  Mistakes          ...... 

334 

Chatterton's  Forgeries  ...... 

336 

Medieval  Imitations  of  the  Classics     .... 

33S 

A  Flood  of  Classicism  ...... 

339 

The  Elizabethan  Age    ...... 

342 

Oliver  Goldsmith           .             .             .         Austin  Dobson     . 

345 

A  City  Night-piece        ...... 

349 

The  Strolling  Player    ...... 

350 

■      The  Man  in  Black         ...... 

352 

Beau  Tibbs  at  Home    ...... 

355 

Beau  Tibbs  at  Vauxhall            ..... 

361 

The  Family  of  Wakefield          ..... 

365 

Family  Misfortunes       ...... 

367 

Dedication  of  TAc  Deserted  Village      .... 

370 

Edmund  Burke    .             .             .             .         JV.  Macneile  Dixon 

373 

The  True  Policy  of  Great  Britain  towards  her  American  Colonies 

379 

Defence  of  his  Political  Conduct           .... 

3S5 

Liberty              ....... 

390 

The    Mistaken  Methods,  and    the    Resulting    Crimes   of  the 

French  Revolution              ..... 

391 

The  Rights  of  Man       ...... 

39S 

The  End  of  the  Age  of  Chivalry            .... 

402 

The  Tendency  of  Democracy  to  excess  in  the  Exercise,  and 

in  the  Desire,  of  Power      ..... 

403 

The  Rights  of  the  Majority       ..... 

405 

The  Duke  of  Bedford's  Censure  on  the  Bounty  of  the  Crown  . 

410 

The  House  of  Lords  and  Warren  Hastings 

419 

ENGLISH  PROSE 


William  Cowper.  .  .  .         IV.  P.  Ker 

Mr.  Village  to  Mr.  Town 
A  Visit  from  a  Candidate 
Mr.  Newton  as  Inquisitor 
Beau  and  the  Water- Lily 

Joseph  Priestley  .  .  -J-  Boiiar 

Of  Correction  . 
Ridicule  as  a  Test  of  Faith 
Effects  of  a  Code  of  Education 

Samuel  Horsley  .  .  .  .        J.  H.  Overton 

The  Platonic  and  Christian  Trinity 
The  Water  and  the  Blood 
The  Heathen  Poet  and  the  Bible 

Edward  Gibbon  .  .  .  .         George  Saintslmry 

Constantius  at  Rome    .        ^ . 
The  Diet  of  the  Tartars 
The  Battle  of  Chalons  . 
Justinian's  Code 

The  Moslem  Capture  of  Aleppo  and  Antioch 
Byzantine  Literature     . 
I\Iagdalen  College,  Oxford 
Finale  .... 

James  Boswell     ....         The  Editor 
The  Pains  and  Pleasures  of  Authorshi 
To  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
Boswell's  Introduction  to  Johnson 
Oliver  Goldsmith 
Johnson's  Peculiarities  of  Manner 
Johnson's  Interview  with  the  King 
Clear  your  Mind  of  Cant 

William  Paley     .  .  .  -J-  Boiar . 

A  Popular  Maxim  Examined    . 
Saint  Paul 
The  Advantage  of  Proofs  for  the  Being  of  God 


CONTENTS 


XI 


Reginald  Brimhy  fohii. 


Henry  Mackenzie  .  .  .         George  Saintshjiry 

Old  Edwards  and  the  Press-gnng 
Miss  Homespun  and  My  Lady 
Mackenzie  on  IJuins 

Hannah  More    ;  . 

Profession  anfl  Practice 

A  Religious  Family 

The  Marriage  Market  . 

A  Natural  Philosopher 

A  Plain  Man  on  his  Daughter 

Dress  and  Literature    . 

The  Art  of  Conversation 

Jeremy  Bentiiam  .  .  .  .         F.  C.  Monfagiic 

The  Point  at  which   Resistance  becomes  a  Duty  incapable  of 

Definition  . 
Government  by  Generalization 


s  Favourite  Novels 


Madame  D'Arblay 

Evelina  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Villars 

Do.  do. 

Mr.  Villars  to  Evelina  . 
Evelina  to  Miss  Mirvan 
A  Man  of  the  Ton 
Pride  and  Prejudice 


The  Editor 


J.  Bonar  . 


DuGALD  Stewart 

The  Desire  of  Esteem  ..... 
The  Use  and  Abuse  of  General  Princijiles  in  Politics  . 
The  Imagination  in  Science 

William  Beckford  .  .  .         ^^^  J-  Gnmett 

A  Dream  in  Kent  ..... 

The  Court  of  the  Queen  of  Portugal 

William  Coi!beii'  .  .  •        ./•  Bonar  . 

Why  leave  England  ?  . 
The  Crown  Grul)  ..... 


503 
506 
508 
510 

513 
515 
517 

520 

521 
522 

523 
525 

528 
532 

537 
541 
543 
547 
548 
552 
555 

559 
561 
564 
566 

571 
573 

574 

577 
580 
581 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


PAGE 

The  King's  English 

582 

Early  Rising     . 

584 

Air  and  Exercise 

585 

James  Mackintosh 

J.  Boiiar  . 

5S7 

The  Age  of  Chivalry  is  Gone    . 

591 

The  Right  of  Rebellion 

595 

Freedom  of  Speech 

599 

Isaac  Disraeli     . 

The  Editor 

605 

Dennis  the  Critic 

609 

Genius  .... 

614 

The  Playthings  of  Philosophers 

616 

Maria  Edgeworth 

The  Editor 

619 

Types  of  Irish  Landlords 

622 

The  Hibernian  Mendicant 

626 

The  Bore 
Notes         .... 

631 

635 

INTRODUCTION 


The  contents  of  the  present  volume  range  from  the  days  of  Queen 
Anne  to  the  earher  part  of  the  present  century.  Literary  con- 
vention connects  the  eighteenth  century  with  certain  distinctive 
and  striking  characteristics.  But  distinctive  and  striking  as  these 
are,  who  shall  presume  to  gauge  them  with  anything  approaching 
completeness  ?  To  do  so,  would  indeed  be  to  estimate  the  real 
forces  that  are  at  work  in  modern  society.  These  forces  have,  in 
their  later  working,  developed  new  exaggerations,  new  antagonisms, 
new  perplexities  and  complications  ;  but  in  their  essential  features 
they  are  present  in  the  great  intellectual  movements  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  which  may  be  said  to  have  arranged,  summed 
up,  and  catalogued,  the  confused  inheritance  bequeathed  by  the 
struggles  of  the  preceding  centuries,  and  to  have  prepared  the 
stage  for  the  new  movements  that  were  to  agitate  the  nineteenth. 
The  eighteenth  century  is  often  said  to  be  the  age  of  aristocracy  : 
and  it  is  so  no  less  in  the  sphere  of  intellect  than  in  that  of 
politics  and  society.  Its  interests  were  far  too  complicated 
not  to  present  plenty  of  exceptions  to  the  general  rule  ;  but  this 
aspect  of  it  remains  nevertheless,  the  most  essential  and  the  most 
pervading.  The  intellectual  and  literary  class  drew  itself  into  a 
camp  of  its  own,  bound  together  by  certain  passwords,  obeying  a 
certain  unwritten  discipline,  and  linked  by  certain  sympathies  in 
spite  of  all  divergencies  of  taste,  and  style,  and  habit,  and  opinion. 
Each  variety  and  type  borrowed  more  than  before  from  other  t)'pes, 
restrained  itself  less  within  narrow  grooves,  and  was  less  absorbed 
in  some  special  theme,  less  the  slave  of  some  special  theory. 
The  age  was  indeed  adverse  to  specialising  of  any  kind  ;  the 
VOL.  IV  B 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


greater  intellects  had  shaken  off  the  power  of  enthusiasm  and 
fanaticism,  carried  themselves  with  a  more  tranquil  air,  had 
acquired  more  of  scientific  precision  and  lucidity,  and  attained  to 
a  wider  outlook,  and  a  greater  variety  of  treatment.  The 
cumbrous  and  pedantic  learning  that  had  lingered  down  to  the 
opening  of  the  century  was  laid  aside  ;  the  sense  of  proportion 
became  more  strong,  and  the  most  vigorous  trusted  more  to  their 
own  innate  powers  and  less  to  the  painful  toil  and  heavy  equip- 
ments of  the  methodical  student.  The  fii'st  impulse  to  this 
movement  was  undoubtedly  given  by  the  leading  spirits  of  the 
previous  generation — such  men  as  Dryden,  Swift,  Addison,  and 
Pope.  But  the  note  struck  thus  early  in  the  century  continued 
to  be  the  dominant  note  down  to  its  close. 

The  effect  of  this  upon  prose  style  was  exactly  what  might 
have  been  predicted.  It  is  quite  conceivable  that  the  English 
language  might  have  been  enriched  by  a  prose  coinage,  struck 
sharp  and  clear  from  the  mint  of  genius,  working  at  white  heat. 
Such  a  coinage  in  poetry  is  our  inheritance  from  the  Elizabethans  ; 
but  in  prose  it  remains  only  one  of  those  things  that  might  have 
been,  but  which  an  adverse  fate  forbade.  The  early  simplicity 
and  directness  died  away  in  the  heat  of  religious  and  political 
strife.  There  remained  the  old  force,  remnants  of  the  old  collo- 
quial raciness,  the  fire  and  vigour  of  the  old  intensity.  But  single- 
ness of  aim  had  gone  ;  each  author  became  a  rule  to  himself, 
aiming  often  at  gaining  attention  only  by  eccentricity,  forced  into 
exaggeration  by  the  earnestness  of  religious  and  political  partisan- 
ship. The  weight  of  pedantry  depressed  our  prose,  foreign 
models  destroyed  much  of  its  native  flavour,  and  we  owe  a  debt 
of  gratitude  to  the  few  whose  care  preserved  the  tradition  of 
courtly  and  even  florid  ornament.  Had  it  not  been  for  those 
whose  over-elaboration  is  falsely  derided  by  shallow  criticism, 
English  prose  might  have  been  a  dreary  tract,  overspread  by 
formal  tillage,  and  bereft  of  all  luxuriance  of  leaf  and  flower. 

What  the  eighteenth  century,  at  its  best,  did  for  English  prose 
was  not  what  might  have  been  done  for  it  by  the  Elizabethans. 
The  opportunity  for  that  was  gone,  and  could  never  conceivably 
return.  But  it  did  what  was  next  best.  It  pruned,  arranged, 
selected.  It  established  a  literary  style.  It  laid  down  fixed  laws 
founded  upon  the  impregnable  principles  of  logical  and  lucid 
thought.  It  waged  perpetual  war  against  what  was  slipshod, 
inaccurate,  and  trivial.      It  sought  out  the  treatment  and  the  style 


INTRODUCTION 


best  suited  for  each  subject,  and  imposed  models  and  types  for 
every  variety  of  literary  theme.  It  drew  upon  all  the  sources  of 
English  prose,  and  never  lent  itself  to  an  affected  archaicism,  or 
prided  itself  upon  a  pedantic  and  silly  eclecticism.  It  gauged 
with  absolute  truth  the  possibilities  of  the  task  and  its  own  powers 
of  accomplishment,  and  performed  with  consummate  success  the 
work  it  sought  to  do. 

It  could  not  indeed  protect  English  prose  against  the  inroads 
of  tawdriness,  bad  taste,  or  modishness  ;  and  how  dire  might  be 
their  encroachments  we  shall  be  able  to  see  in  the  fashions  that 
came  to  prevail  before  the  nineteenth  century  had  grown  old. 
But  the  code  of  law  which  the  eighteenth  century  established, 
at  least  limited  the  freedom  which  such  travesties  might  have 
assumed.  That  century  did  much,  and  we  cannot  fairly  blame 
it  because  it  did  not  do  more. 

These  then,  with  no  more  exceptions  than  were  necessary  and 
natural,  were  the  general  features  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
True  to  its  instincts  it  formed  a  literary  class,  fenced  off  by  a 
certain  exclusiveness,  compelling  a  certain  measure  of  conformity 
to  its  rules,  looking  askance  upon  eccentricity,  and  linked 
together  in  all  its  varieties  by  a  certain  sympathy.  It  set  its  face 
against  all  fanaticism,  against  all  extremes.  It  troubled  itself  little 
about  details,  and  sought  to  achieve  success  rather  by  intellectual 
gifts  than  by  laborious  effort.  It  refused  to  allow  itself  to  be 
carried  away  by  any  impetuous  enthusiasm,  and  maintained  an 
attitude  of  aloofness  and  detachment  that  contributed  much  to  its 
mood  of  cynical  humour.  And  moving  and  ciuickening  as  it  were 
behind  this  curtain  of  criticism,  of  cynicism,  and  of  formality, 
there  burned,  with  exceeding  warmth,  a  fire  of  popular  energy, 
which  occasionally  showed  glimpses  of  itself  as  the  century 
passed,  and  burst  into  a  full  flame  before  its  close. 

Following  the  various  lines  which  the  literature  of  the  century 
presents  to  us,  we  find  in  Middleton  a  distinct  type,  which  is  clearly 
distinguished  from  what  has  gone  before,  and  is  carried  on  con- 
sistently in  certain  features  to  the  end.  His  learning,  within  its 
limits,  is  clear,  practical,  and  free  from  pedantry.  All  his  equip- 
ment is  well  assorted  and  adaptable ;  there  is  nothing  about  it  either 
of  cumbrousness  or  mystery.  His  style  is  exact,  logical,  and  full 
of  common  sense  ;  if  it  is  bald  it  therein  reflects  the  limitations  of 
the  man.  Allowing  for  individual  difference  there  is  a  small 
step    between    him    and    Warburton.      The  latter    is    the    typical 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


controversialist  of  his  age  ;  strong,  uncompromising,  vigorous 
with  something  of  the  sinewy  force  of  the  athlete,  direct  and 
even  brutal  in  manner,  swollen  with  the  self-satisfied  pride  of  the 
combatant,  and  without  anything  of  sentiment  or  feeling.  In 
Butler  there  is  a  strain  of  something  infinitely  higher ;  a  powerful 
individuality  that  cannot  be  stifled,  a  lucidity  that  gives  to  his 
writings  the  permanence  of  classics,  and  a  sincerity  and  earnest- 
ness that  illumine  his  logical  acumen  with  the  warm  light  of 
genius.  The  characteristics  of  the  same  school,  more  or  less 
modified,  and  moving  in  a  far  lower  scale,  are  seen  in  Price  and 
Priestly  ;  commonplace  in  manner,  fitly  reflecting  the  mediocre 
whiggism  of  the  day,  with  an  echo  from  the  earlier  latitudinarians, 
but  eschewing  their  whimsical  vanities  and  puerilities,  restrained 
within  a  certain  moderation,  defended  against  ridicule  by  a  certain 
armour  of  common  sense.  Paley  repeats  the  same  characteristics 
of  plain  and  vigorous  reasoning,  more  powerful  in  logic,  more 
practised  in  argument,  with  larger  intellectual  grasp,  but  equally 
unambitious  of  ornament,  equally  uninformed  by  deep  feeling  or 
by  any  imagination  or  enthusiasm.  In  Dugald  Stewart  we  have 
more  of  the  philosophical  bias,  but  it  is  still  the  philosophy  of 
common  sense  with  no  metaphysical  flights.  He  has  risen 
beyond  the  plainness,  amounting  almost  to  monotony,  that  had 
marked  the  previous  writings  of  his  school  ;  and  it  was  owing 
perhaps  in  great  measure  to  his  consummate  gifts  as  an  academic 
teacher  that  his  written  work  was  enriched  by  a  vein  of  ornament 
and  eloquence.  With  something  of  the  same  training,  and 
strongly  affected  by  the  same  influence  of  ex  catJiedrd  teaching, 
Adam  Smith  added  to  a  philosophy,  vigorous  and  lucid  rather 
than  profound,  the  clear  insight  and  energetic  common  sense  of 
the  man  of  the  world,  giving  force  and  vividness  to  theoretic 
treatment  by  a  certain  raciness  and  homeliness  of  style  that  told 
the  more  effectively  because  his  theories  dealt  with  the  laws  that 
regulate  practical  life.  In  Mackintosh  the  same  ideal  of  clear 
and  common -sense  exposition  is  present.  But  there  is  a 
weakening  of  fibre  already  beginning.  The  strength  of  sinew  is 
degenerating.  The  style  is  infected  by  something  of  stilted 
pomposity,  the  e.xposition  often  slides  from  lucidity  into  common- 
place, and  barrenness  of  thought  is  often  imperfectly  concealed 
behind  the  scaffolding  of  formality  and  conventional  dignity  of 
style.  In  Bentham  we  reach,  perhaps,  the  ideal — not  certainly  a 
very  inviting  one — of  prosaic,  and  even  acrid  logic.      Narrow  in 


INTRODUCTION  5 


his  conceptions,  but  inflexibly  bold  in  their  enunciation,  with  the 
force  and  vigour  that  come  from  absolute  conviction,  with  the 
warmth — and  that  alone — which  comes  from  hostility  to  what  he 
believes  to  be  erroneous  or  unsound,  softened  by  no  shadow  of 
doubt,  and  illumined  by  no  ray  of  imagination,  Bentham  yet 
commands  respect  even  from  those  to  whom  his  writings  seem 
most  barren  of  human  interest.  To  him  literary  style  was,  so  far 
as  conscious  effort  went,  a  meaningless  phrase  ;  he  is  correct  and 
lucid  only  from  the  clearness  of  his  own  views,  and  because  he 
found  the  instrument  of  expression  wrought  to  perfection  by  the 
habit  of  his  age.  In  Cobbett  we  have  little  of  refinement,  little 
of  resource,  little  liberal  ecjuipment ;  but  the  tradition  of  common 
sense  is  still  a  vigorous  force,  and  in  his  almost  enthusiastic 
inculcation  of  lucidity  and  correctness  of  style,  he  keeps  alive  one 
of  the  best  inheritances  from  the  eighteenth  century. 

These  are  all  names  sufficiently  respectable  to  bring  high 
honour  to  the  literary  work  of  that  century.  But,  typical  of  its 
characteristics  as  they  are,  they  represent  but  one,  and  that  not 
its  most  important  phase.  Another  is  to  be  found  in  those 
with  whom  the  religious  vein  was  stronger.  In  Berkeley  we 
rise  to  the  level  of  a  purer  atmosphere,  and  to  a  range  of  far 
wider  compass,  than  were  reached  by  any  of  those  just  named. 
In  his  enthusiasm  and  in  his  eloquence  he  kept  alive  the  torch 
that  had  been  handed  on  to  him  from  the  theologians  of  another 
day ;  in  his  lucid  clearness  he  added  a  new  element,  in  which 
he  was  akin  to  the  more  scientific  thought  of  his  own  age  ;  and 
in  the  richness  of  his  imagination,  in  the  perfection  of  his 
philosophic  style,  he  attains  to  that  uniqueness  which  is  the 
chief  attribute  of  genius.  There  is  something  of  the  same 
mental  quality  in  the  mysticism  of  Law ;  sombre  and  yet 
eloquent  ;  instinct  with  feeling  ;  at  once  severe  and  grim  in  his 
earnestness,  and  copious  in  the  range  of  his  imagination.  But 
the  spirit  of  Berkeley  and  of  Law  was  not  one  suited  to  the 
century  ;  and  they  stand  almost  as  solitary  monuments  of  a 
phase  of  thoug^ht,  which  passed  away  in  a  crowd  of  opposite 
ideals.  As  a  literary  power  Wesley  stands  far  below  them. 
His  mind  was  not  without  something  of  the  mysticism  that 
dominated  Law  ;  it  has  a  strain  of  melancholy  which  does  not 
lessen  our  interest,  and  he  presents  the  rare  spectacle  of  a 
scholar  who  dreaded  lest  his  own  scholarship  might  interfere 
with  the  popular  work  which  was  the  supreme  aim  of  his  life. 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


There  was  a  certain  Puritanism  in  the  conscious  simphcity  of  his 
style ;  but  he  could  not  divorce  himself  altogether  from  that 
literar}'  sympathy  that  linked  him  to  his  age,  and  that  made 
him  the  friend  of  one  with  whom  he  stands  in  many  respects 
so  much  in  contrast  as  Johnson.  In  Horsley  we  may  find  an 
example  of  what  religious  writing  became  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  century,  earnest  and  conscientious,  rich  in  scholarship  and 
robust  in  thought,  but  moving  rather  with  judicial  formality  and 
dignified  reverence  than  by  any  instinct  of  enthusiastic  piety. 

There  are  others  again  whom  it  is  hard  to  classify,  who  are 
yet  no  less  typical  of  the  age.  They  form  a  long  list,  and 
little  as  they  are  akin  to  one  another  in  style  or  taste  or  sentiment, 
they  are  yet  most  distinctly  the  children  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Who  is  more  characteristic  of  its  spirit  than  Chesterfield  ?  Early 
as  he  comes  in  its  course,  he  seems  almost  of  set  purpose  to 
exaggerate  all  its  tendencies,  to  make  himself  a  bold  exponent 
of  its  cynicism  in  its  most  pronounced,  it  may  perhaps  be  said 
in  its  most  superficial,  phase.  Subject,  treatment,  tone,  and  style 
— all  alike  are  redolent  of  the  century  ;  passing  over  enthusiasm 
with  a  smile,  treating  religion  and  morality  with  a  courtly 
politeness  that  savours  of  ridicule,  wrapping  itself  in  a  garment 
of  conventionality  that  it  may  escape  the  plebeianism  of  eccentric 
individuality.  Yet  with  all  this,  how  much  of  art  there  is  !  How 
much  deliberate  and  conscious  preference  of  form  over  matter ! 
How  much  lightness  of  touch,  and  how  much  dexterous  choice 
of  the  fitting  phrase  !  How  much  of  exclusiveness,  and  how 
much  of  the  careful  art  of  the  actor,  avoiding  above  all  things 
any  awkwardness  or  clumsiness  of  deportment,  and  studious  to 
preserve  an  unruffled  composure  which  no  strong  feeling,  or  earnest 
conviction  is  allowed  to  disturb !  Chesterfield  may  be  super- 
ficial, but  he  has  at  least  fastidiousness  of  literary  taste.  Heartless 
he  may  be,  but  lie  has  the  sense  of  humour.  He  may  be  con- 
ventional, but  he  is  never  vain  ;  and  if  his  philosophy  is  barren 
and  circumscribed,  he  at  least  knew  how  to  adapt  his  language 
with  perfection  to  its  needs. 

Sterne  contrasts  with  him  in  countless  qualities.  He  is 
colloquial  and  slipshod,  a  chartered  libertine  in  languag^e  ;  losing 
all  sense  of  dignity  in  his  affectation  and  whimsical  conceits  ; 
eccentric  not  from  impulse  but  from  wayward  artificiality,  ruffled 
into  petty  and  vanishing  emotion  by  every  breath  of  pathos, 
however  false   and   tawdry  ;    noisy  in   his  childish  depreciation  of 


INTRODUCTION 


conventionality  and  order ;  but  yet,  withal,  imbued  with  the 
same  cynicism,  aiming  at  the  same  indifference  of  demeanour,  im- 
pressed by  the  same  sense  of  the  "  ridiculous  tragedy  "  of  human 
life — above  all,  with  the  same  vein  of  humour,  but  of  a  richness  and 
fertility  which  has  scarcely  ever  been  approached,  and  which  Chester- 
field could  never,  even  remotely,  rival.  With  all  his  carelessness 
of  diction,  with  all  his  affected  contempt  of  form,  Sterne  wrote 
for  a  literary  age  ;  even  in  his  wildest  extravagances  he  knows 
how  to  attune  his  language  to  the  mood  of  the  moment,  and  to 
make  it  a  fitting  dress  for  the  most  wayward,  the  most  fitful,  the 
most  perplexing,  and  yet  the  most  invincible  wit  which  fancy 
ever  contrived. 

Take  again  another  pair — in  outward  guise  most  unlike  these 
two,  and  equally  in  contrast  with  one  another,  and  yet  steeped 
each  of  them  to  the  finger  tips  in  the  eighteenth-century  spirit — 
Gray  and  Horace  Walpole.  Scarcely  could  two  letter-writers 
be  more  unlike.  Gray  shows  himself  in  every  page  the  scholarly 
recluse  ;  finished,  elaborate,  even  artificial  in  his  diction,  incapable 
of  writing  a  sentence  which  does  not  bear  the  impress  of  care 
and  labour.  No  feeling  is  ever  assumed  or  false  ;  its  sincerity 
seems  to  be  tested  and  tried  by  the  same  rigid  criticism  which 
he  applies  to  his  style.  But  it  is  the  sincerity,  not  of  impulse  or 
enthusiasm,  but  of  the  student  and  man  of  letters.  Walpole,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  sprightly,  lively,  intolerant,  even  to  nervousness, 
of  dulness  or  heaviness,  speaking  the  opinion  or  impression  of 
the  hour,  superficial,  it  is  true,  but  yet  sincere  in  his  individuality, 
and  with  a  certain  freshness  in  his  freedom  from  conventionality. 

No  age,  fortunately,  can  mould  character  after  one  type,  or 
prescribe  a  code  so  strong  as  to  stifle  individuality.  The  eighteenth 
century,  like  every  other,  had  its  types  both  of  artificiality  and 
of  homeliness,  of  cynicism  and  of  enthusiasm,  of  intellectual 
force  and  of  whimsical  caprice,  of  logical  earnestness  and  of 
superficial  sentiment.  But  in  this,  at  least,  it  was  peculiar, 
that  it  was  endowed  with  literary  tact  ;  and  if  it  did  nothing  else, 
it  proved  that  genius  might  work  in  obedience  to  the  unwritten 
laws  which  that  tact  prescribed,  and  that  even  although  the 
exuberance  of  earlier  fancy,  and  the  untaught  raciness  of  an 
older  language  were  gone  past  recall,  it  could  still  leave  to 
posterity  a  ricli  and  varied  literary  inheritance.  It  is  this 
literary  tact  which  links  together  a  whole  group  and  succession 
of  men,  differing  in  every  degree  of  homeliness  and  elaboration, 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  simplicity  and  pompous  solemnity,  of  gracefulness  and  almost 
uncouth  force.  Gilbert  White  strikes  us  at  first  only  by  his 
homeliness  and  simplicity,  by  his  lucid  and  unpretentious  narrative, 
by  the  sincerity  and  piety  of  his  unwearied  study  of  nature. 
But  in  truth  the  scholar  never  forgets  his  books.  The  simplicity 
is  the  effect  of  the  highest  art ;  his  narrative  impresses  us 
because  it  is  arranged  with  the  skill  of  a  trained  thinker,  who 
never  allows  his  induction  to  be  slovenly  or  inexact,  who  knows 
exactly  how  to  buttress  a  theory  with  an  unassuming  anecdote, 
and  who  can  bring  a  scientific  reminiscence,  or  a  recondite 
classification,  into  the  midst  of  the  homely  story  of  some  every- 
day incident. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  discuss  the  artistic  theories  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  ;  but  whatever  their  weight  and  authority,  he 
elaborated  them  under  the  dominant  influence  of  a  literary  clique, 
whose  canons  he  adopted,  and  by  that  literary  influence  he 
founded  artistic  criticism  in  England,  and  clothed  it  in  the 
urbane  and  graceful  style  that  was  a  counterpart  of  his  own 
personality. 

Scarcely  any  character  could  have  been  more  strong  in  its 
individuality  than  that  of  Warton.  His  cumbrous  and  amor- 
phous learning,  too  vast  to  be  exact,  and  too  tenacious  to  be 
discriminating,  might  seem  unlikely  to  submit  its  vigorous  in- 
dependence to  any  environment,  however  strong.  But  yet,  as 
a  fact,  the  work  that  Warton  achieved  would  not  have  been 
possible  to  him  had  he  lived  in  any  previous  age.  His  learning 
would  have  run  into  abstruse  divagations,  where  pedantry  and 
fancy  would  have  overwhelmed  all  sense  of  proportion.  To 
such  aberrations  he  was  by  nature  only  too  prone.  But  the 
scientific  sense  of  his  age  revealed  to  him  just  the  questions  in 
literary  history  which  called  for  solution.  He  saw,  by  anticipa- 
tion, some  of  the  fruits  which  the  comparative  method  might 
be  made  to  yield  ;  and,  as  a  consequence,  although  he  essayed 
a  task  too  large  for  any  man,  and  achieved  what  is  doubtless  an 
ill-arranged  and  ill-proportioned  fragment,  yet  he  left  the  impress 
of  his  independent  thought  and  of  his  vigorous  grasp  upon  our 
literature,  and  traced  the  lines  upon  which  its  history  must  be 
written. 

Within  the  compass  of  an  introduction  such  as  this,  it  is  not 
possible,  nor  even  desirable,  to  pass  in  review  all  the  names  which 
are  to  meet  us  in  this  \olume.      For  an  appreciation  of  each  the 


INTRODUCTION 


reader  must  be  referred  to  the  separate  prefatory  notes.  All 
that  is  attempted  here  is  to  illustrate  the  spirit  of  the  age  by  those 
who  are  most  typical  of  it.  But  no  such  sketch  would  be  com- 
plete without  a  reference  to  one  very  distinctive  development  of 
the  time — that  of  the  modern  novel,  by  which  a  more  literary  age 
replaced  the  drama  in  its  decay.  The  larger  and  more  interest- 
ing questions  of  the  ethical  and  social  work  of  fiction  do  not  here 
concern  us.  But  we  cannot  neglect  it  as  a  potent  element  in  the 
formation  of  style.  Richardson  could  not  aspire  to  any  literary 
graces  ;  his  resources  were  too  few  and  his  methods  too  simple 
for  such  an  ambition.  But  in  his  delicate  and  discriminating 
character  drawing  he  inevitably  developed  a  new  literary  appliance. 
He  was  bound  to  eschew  theory,  to  avoid  any  cataloguing  of 
characteristics,  to  lay  aside  the  old  modes  of  the  seventeenth- 
century  Theophrastuses,  and  to  subordinate  his  drawing  of 
character  to  his  story.  He  must  perforce  be  simple,  and  proceed 
step  by  step,  discarding  all  pedantry,  and  allowing  the  character 
to  reveal  itself  with  the  inevitableness  of  reality.  If  our  language, 
was  thus  enriched  by  Richardson  with  some  new  feints  and 
manoeuvres  of  style,  far  greater  was  its  debt  to  Fielding^to 
whom  we  shall  return  presently  ;  and  even  Smollett,  although  his 
art  was  limited,  if  he  did  nothing  else  at  least  established  a 
current  diction  for  comic  narrative,  vigorous  if  somewhat  barbar- 
ous in  its  vigour.  As  the  century  closed,  the  novel  passed  into 
very  different  hands,  in  the  earliest  of  our  female  writers  of  fiction, 
Madame  d'Arblay  and  Miss  Edgeworth,  whose  art  was  to 
culminate  in  Jane  Austen.  Contrasting  with  their  predecessors  in 
every  feature  of  method  and  treatment,  they  contrasted  with  them 
no  less  strongly  in  their  style.  Obedient  to  the  dictatorship  of 
Johnson,  they  made  their  ideal  (if  we  shut  out  of  view  the  later 
aberrations  of  Madame  d'Arblay)  one  of  lucid  simplicity  and 
studied  accuracy,  and  in  this  as  in  all  else  assisted  towards  the 
perfection  of  that  ideal  in  the  consummate  ai't  of  Jane  Austen. 

There  remain  certain  names,  apart  from  all  classification  of 
subject  and  of  treatment,  supreme  in  their  sovereignty,  the 
pillars  of  the  century,  summing  up  in  themselves  its  highest 
achievement,  and  secure  from  all  rivalry  and  competition.  These 
are  Johnson,  Gibbon,  Fielding,  Hume,  and  Burke.  The  age  that 
comprises  them  need  fear  no  comparison.  We  may  surely  by 
this  time  claim  that  Johnson  has  shaken  off  the  inept  cavillings  of 
petty  criticism,  and  has  blunted  the  shafts  of  the  witlings.      Of 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


his  dignity  of  character,  of  the  keenness  of  his  insight,  of  the 
boldness  and  breadth  of  his  criticism,  of  the  range  of  his  sym- 
pathy and  his  humour,  this  is  not  the  place  to  speak.  But,  in 
style  alone,  we  may  justly  claim  that  he  is  the  vertebrate  column 
of  our  prose.  He  could  not  accomplish  the  impossible.  Once  more 
I  venture  to  express  the  conviction  that  the  highest  conceivable 
perfection  of  English  prose  was  possible  only  to  the  Elizabethans, 
and  that  when  the  task  passed  unaccomplished  from  their  hands,  the 
hopes  of  it  vanished  beyond  recall.  But  what  Johnson  could  do, 
he  did  with  consummate  power.  To  him  it  was  left  to  establish 
a  code,  to  evolve  order  out  of  disorderly  materials,  to  found  a  new 
ideal  of  style  in  absolutely  logical  precision,  adding  to  that  pre- 
cision dignity  and  eloquence  and  force.  To  ascribe  to  him  a 
slavish  propensity  to  cumbrous  and  pedantic  sesquipedalianism  is 
to  mistake  the  travesty  for  the  orginal.  His  dictatorship  in 
literature,  based  on  native  strength,  was  most  unquestioned  in  the 
sphere  of  style  ;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  all  that  is  best 
in  English  prose  since  his  day  is  his  debtor  in  respect  of  not  a 
few  of  its  highest  qualities,  above  all  in  respect  of  absolute 
lucidity,  unfailing  vigour,  and  saving  common  sense. 

Just  in  so  far  as  Gibbon  was  not  so  great  a  man  as  Johnson, 
does  his  style  fall  below  Johnson's  level.  The  strain  of  affectation, 
the  undue  elaboration,  the  tone  of  artificial  irony  are  always 
unduly  marked  in  that  style.  But  the  massiveness  of  Gibbon's 
intellect,  the  largeness  of  his  grasp,  his  unfailing  sense  of  literary 
proportion,  the  fearless  vigour  of  his  historical  conception, — all 
these  are  too  great  to  be  buried  beneath  the  affectation.  He 
towers  above  all  competitors  as  a  giant  amongst  the  pigmies,  the 
type  and  model  of  the  historian,  whose  example  remains  un- 
touched by  time,  and  remote  from  rivalry. 

As  a  master  of  style.  Fielding  has  a  claim  on  our  admiration, 
apart  from  all  the  other  attributes  of  his  genius.  It  seems  strange 
in  regard  to  Fielding  to  set  aside  all  the  wealth  of  human  sympathy, 
all  the  range  of  humour,  all  the  vividness  of  character-drawing, 
and  to  restrict  ourselves  solely  to  the  one  aspect  that  interests  us 
here,  his  place  as  a  writer  of  prose.  His  style  reflects  much  that  is 
distinctive  of  his  genius,  its  massive  carelessness,  its  strong 
simplicity,  its  clearness  of  outline,  and  its  consummate  ease.  But 
above  all  things  he  repeats  two  leading  characteristics  of  his  age, 
its  irony  and  its  scholarship.  Fielding  was  from  first  to  last  a 
man  of  letters,  as  the  character  was  conceived  in  his  time — with- 


INTRODUCTION 


out  pedantry,  without  strain,  without  the  constraint  of  subtlety, 
but  always  imbued  with  the  instinct  of  the  scholar,  never  for- 
getting that,  in  the  full  rush  of  his  exuberant  fancy  and  his 
audacious  humour,  he  must  give  to  his  style  that  indescribable 
cjuality  that  makes  it  permanent,  that  forces  us  to  place  it  in  the 
first  rank  of  literary  effort,  that,  even  when  irregular,  pleads  for 
no  allowance  on  the  score  of  neglect  of  art.  He  challenges 
comparison  on  merely  literary  grounds  with  the  best  models  of 
literary  art,  and  he  is  no  loser  by  the  comparison. 

So  it  is  with  Hume.  We  do  not,  for  our  purpose,  seek  to 
gauge  his  place  as  a  philosopher,  nor  dwell  upon  his  boldness, 
his  unswerving  logic,  the  keen  directness  of  his  insight,  the 
indomitable  and  uncompromising  force  that  pushed  conclusion  so 
far  that  reaction  became  inevitable.  But  what  we  have  to  observe 
is  that  his  style  reflected  all  these  qualities.  Its  limpid  flow,  its 
simplicity  side  by  side  with  its  studied  art,  its  undercurrent  of 
sarcasm,  its  irony  and  its  epigram,  all  these  made  it  a  part  of  his 
genius,  made  its  place  in  our  literature  secure,  and  made  it  one 
of  those  forces  that  compel  respect  for  the  century  of  which  he 
was  the  characteristic  product. 

Lastly,  in  Burke  we  have  to  recognise  not  the  politician  only, 
instinct  with  sincerity,  unfettered  by  convention,  illimitable  in 
range,  and  giving  shape  and  utterance  to  impulses  that  were  true 
not  for  one  age  only  but  for  all  time  ;  but  we  have  to  see  in  him 
the  writer  of  a  prose  illumined  as  with  fire  ;  enthusiastic  and  yet 
supremely  logical  :  fearless  and  yet  absolutely  obedient  to  order 
and  to  law  :  eloquent  and  yet  restrained  :  stirred  by  every  popular 
movement,  and  yet  suggestive  and  philosophical.  More  com- 
pletely than  any  man  he  showed,  in  style  no  less  perfectly  than  in 
spirit  and  in  sympathy,  all  that  was  most  typical  of  the  best 
genius  of  his  age  —  its  restraint,  its  philosophy,  its  obedience 
to  order  .and  to  law,  and  its  gift  of  literary  instinct — removed 
as  far  from  the  exaggeration  and  pedantiy  of  what  had  gone 
before,  as  from  the  vulgar  platitude  and  superficial   complacency 

of  what  was  to  follow. 

H.  Craik. 


CONYERS    MIDDLETON 


[Conyers  Middleton,  who  belonged  to  an  affluent  and  well  connected  York- 
shire family,  was  born  at  Richmond  on  27th  December  1683.  He  entered 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  obtained  a  Fellow- 
ship, which,  however,  he  vacated  ten  years  after  his  matriculation,  on  his 
marriage  with  a  very  wealthy  widow,  a  Mrs.  Drake.  His  connection  with 
the  College,  nevertheless,  drew  him  into  the  celebrated  and  desperate  quarrel 
between  the  Fellows  and  their  Master,  Bentley — a  quarrel,  the  vicissitudes  of 
which  cannot  be  told  here,  though  they  are  reflected  in  many  of  Middleton's 
works.  He  was  made  Librarian  to  the  University  in  1722,  which  post  he 
retained  to  his  death,  and  Woodwardian  Professor  of  Geology  in  1731,  but 
he  only  held  that  appointment  for  three  years.  He  travelled  in  Italy  after 
the  death  of  his  first  wife,  married  a  second  in  1734,  and  a  third  in  1745  ; 
but  his  headquarters  were  always  at  Cambridge,  or  close  by  at  Hildersham, 
where  he  had  property.  He  held  more  than  one  living  at  different  times  of 
his  life,  but  in  no  case  for  long.  He  died  at  Hildersham  on  28th  July  1750. 
Besides  the  frequently  reprinted  Life  of  Cicero,  which  originally  appeared  in 
1741,  his  works  were  numerous,  and  are  nearly  all  collected  in  live  volumes, 
which  reached  their  second  edition  five  years  after  his  death.  Besides  polemical 
pamphlets  against  Bentley,  Waterland,  and  others,  they  contain  miscellanies 
on  subjects  rather  unusually  wide  apart,  as  well  as  two  larger  and  more  famous 
productions — A  Letter  from  Rome  showing  an  exact  Conformity  bet^vecn  Popery 
and  Paganism  (1729),  and  A  Free  Inquiry  into  the  Miraculous  Poiuers  which 
arc  supposed  to  have  existed  in  the  Christian  Church  (1748).] 

The  name  and  fame  of  Conyers  Middleton  liave  always  lain  under 
a  rather  curious  cloud,  which  has  latterly  extended  from  his  per- 
sonal to  his  literary  reputation.  He  has  been  violently  attacked, 
and  on  the  whole  very  faintly  if  at  all  defended,  on  three  different 
grounds  :  first  as  a  dishonest  man  who,  while  taking  the  pay  of 
the  Church  of  England  and  pretending  to  acquiesce  in  her  doc- 
trines, seized  every  opportunity  of  undermining  the  faith  of  his 
co-religionists  ;  secondly  as  a  controversialist,  equally  virulent  and 
disingenuous,  both  in  religious  and  non-religious  subjects  ;  thirdly 
as  a  wholesale  and  impudent  plagiarist  from  Bellendenus  (William 
Bellenden,  1555- 1633)  in  his  Life  of  Cicero.  During  the 
eighteenth  century,  as  a  kind  of  set-off  to  these  imputations,  he 


14  ENGLISH  PROSE 


enjoyed  the  credit  of  a  remarkable  proficiency  in  English  prose 
style  ;  but  De  Quincey,  partly  out  of  partisanship  for  Bentley, 
partly  from  his  preference  for  ornate  over  severe  writing,  and 
partly  also  out  of  mere  crotchet,  laboured  to  destroy  this  reputa- 
tion with  a  certain  success.  The  controversial  part  of  Middleton's 
writing^s  has  lost  its  savour  ;  his  erudition,  which  was  consider- 
able, has  been  superseded,  and  his  attacks  (if  attacks  they  are 
to  be  called)  on  orthodoxy  proceed  on  a  method  which  has  long 
been  exchanged  for  others  by  his  successors.  It  is  therefore  very 
improbable  that  he  finds  many  readers  now,  or  will  ever  find  them 
again,  except  among  students  of  his  special  subjects  and  gifts. 

He  was,  however,  a  man  of  remarkable  and  altogether  excep- 
tional ability,  of  wide  and  curiously  diversified  literary  interests, 
and  in  my  judgment  at  least  much  more  deserving  of  his  earlier 
than  of  his  later  reputation  as  a  prose  writer.  Of  his  supposed 
theological  dishonesty  not  much  should,  but  something  must  be 
said  here.  He  himself  grappled  boldly  and,  as  far  as  dialectics 
go,  not  ineffectively  with  the  charge,  in  a  Letter  to  Venn,  who  had 
called  him  an  apostate.  A  specimen  of  this  letter  will  be  found 
infra.  It  is  open  to  any  one  to  say  that  though  it  displays  extreme 
skill  of  fence  and  much  dignity,  it  neither  contains  any  direct  and 
satisfactory  confession  or  profession  of  belief,  nor  displays  that 
genuine  indignation  which  might  have  been  expected  from  innocence. 
I  do  not  myself  think  that  Middleton  was  consciously  or  intention- 
ally anti-Christian,  or  that  in  his  professed  attacks  on  "Popery" 
and  on  "  Superstition  "  he  meant  more  than  he  said.  But  he  was 
evidently  possessed  strongly  by  the  eighteenth-century  hatred  of 
"  enthusiasm,"  and  not  less  strongly  by  the  mania  of  that  centurj' 
for  inquiring  into  everything,  by  its  disrelish  for  mysticism  and 
metaphysics,  and  by  its  rather  crude  contempt  for  former  ages. 
He  is  thus  the  opposite,  or  rather  the  complement  of  Berkeley, 
who  was  almost  exactly  his  contemporary  (they  were  born  within 
two  and  died  within  three  years  of  each  other),  and  exhibits  on  the 
negative  and  lower  side  the  same  restless  and  vigorous  love  of 
research  and  argument  which  Berkeley  shows  on  the  higher  and 
positive.  It  is  particulai-ly  noteworthy  in  how  many  odd  directions 
Middleton's  thoughts  exercised  themselves.  He  has  for  instance 
a  paper  on  Latin  pronunciation  which  is  quite  beyond  his  time, 
and  he  took  an  interest  in  early  printing,  which  was  also  not  at 
all  of  that  time,  though  it  may  have  been  prompted  in  him  by  a 
little  inter-university  jealousy. 


CONYERS  MIDDLETON  15 

For  his  style,  so  far  as  it  is  matter  of  controversy,  the  following 
extracts  will  probably  speak  better  than  elaborate  comment.  He 
is  best  at  argument  and  narration — better  perhaps  in  the  former 
than  in  the  latter,  where  he  is  apt  to  follow  the  ancients  in  using 
English  relatives  as  if  they  had  the  Latin  distinctions  of  gender, 
number,  and  case  to  preserve  their  connection  with  the  antecedent 
from  obscurity.  In  his  pugnacious  passages  the  necessity  of 
driving  home  his  argument  saves  him  from  this.  Indeed  I  think 
it  would  be  hardly  possible  to  find  a  better  example  than  Middle- 
ton's  of  the  severely  plain  style,  not  quite  so  homely  as  Swift's, 
but  not  excessively  academic.  Of  ornament,  especially  in  his  con- 
troversial writings,  he  has  little  or  nothing  ;  and  this  of  itself 
accounts  for  the  scant  affection  with  which  the  nineteenth  century 
has  regarded  him.  He  is  not  merely,  as  most  of  his  contempor- 
aries were,  intolerant  of  gorgeous  or  flowery  language,  but  it  is 
the  rarest  thing  for  him  to  attemjat  a  flight,  a  trope,  an  epigram 
in  the  modern  as  opposed  to  the  classical  sense.  His  temper 
was  not  g'^enial,  and  he  is  rather  sarcastic  than  humorous  ;  but  his 
sarcasm  was  rarely  marred  by  the  mere  rude  liorseplay  to  which 
his  great  adversary  Bentley  too  often  descended.  Thus  his  series 
of  Remarks  on  Bentley's  Proposals^  though  their  fragmentary 
nature  and  their  constant  quotations  make  them  unsuitable  for 
excerpt  here,  are  really  distinguished  examples  of  uncompromising 
hostile  criticism,  and  it  is  seldom  that  nearly  as  much  may  not  be 
said  for  his  voluminous  and  diversified  controversies  with  others. 
In  the  Letter  from  Rome  and  the  Free  Enquiry,  the  semblance  at 
least  of  an  open  and  candid  examination  is  largely  assisted  by  the 
perfect  perspicuity  of  the  phrase,  the  apparent  abstinence  from  all 
flings,  shifts,  and  evasions  under  cover  of  declamation  on  the  one 
side,  or  of  buffoonery  on  the  other.  In  the  Life  of  Cicero,  though 
the  vehicle  of  communication  is  somewhat  more  negligently 
polished  and  equipped,  there  is  the  same  perfect  clearness,  with 
very  rare  excejitions,  due  to  the  cause  above  glanced  at  and  a  few 
others  of  the  same  kind.  And  it  is  fair  or  rather  necessary  to 
remember  that  when  Middleton  began  to  write,  the  new  balanced 
English  style  had  had  very  few  applications  to  historical  narrative. 
It  had  been  used  in  sennons,  in  essays,  in  short  critical  disserta- 
tions and  so  forth,  and  already  great  examples  of  it  had  appeared 
in  philosophy.  But  even  Johnson,  a  much  younger  man  than 
Middleton,  could  still  speak  of  Knolles,  whose  work  was  more 
than  a  century  old,  as  the  chief  example  of  historical  writing  in 


1 6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


English,  and  though  Johnson's  well-known  prejudices  might  have 
made  him  purposely  ignore  Robertson  and  Hume,  neither  of  these 
writers  made  a  name  till  long  after  Middleton.  It  is  thus  very 
important  to  observe  dates  and  correspondences  of  dates  in  regard 
to  him.  And  when  they  are  observed,  perhaps  the  best  summing 
up  of  his  position  in  the  history  of  English  prose  will  be  that  he 
wrote  with  a  remarkable  combination  of  vigour  and  correctness, 
that  he  carried  the  unadorned  style  almost  to  its  limit,  and  that 
while  he  sometimes  went  perilously  near  to  being  bald  he  never 
actually  reached  baldness. 

George  Saintsbury. 


THE   FIRST  TRIUMVIRATE 

In  the  midst  of  these  transactions,  JuHus  Ca:sar  returned  from 
the  government  of  Spain,  which  had  been  allotted  to  him  for 
his  praetorship,  with  great  fame,  both  for  his  militaiy  and 
political  acts.  He  conquered  the  barbarous  nations  by  his  arms, 
and  civilised  them  by  his  laws  ;  and  having  subdued  the  whole 
country  as  far  as  the  ocean,  and  being  saluted  emperor  by  the 
soldiers,  came  away  in  all  haste  to  Rome,  to  sue,  at  the  same 
time,  for  the  double  honour  of  a  triumph  and  the  consulship.  He 
designed  L.  Lucceius  for  his  colleague,  and  privately  joined 
interests  with  him,  on  condition  that  Lucceius,  who  was  rich, 
should  furnish  money  sufficient  to  bribe  the  centuries.  But  the 
senate,  always  jealous  of  his  designs,  and  fearing  the  effects  of 
his  power,  when  supported  by  a  colleague  subservient  to  his  will, 
espoused  the  other  candidate,  Bibulus,  with  all  their  authority, 
and  made  a  common  purse,  to  enable  him  to  bribe  as  high  as 
his  competitors  ;  which  Cato  himself  is  said  to  have  approved. 
By  this  means  they  got  Bibulus  elected,  to  their  great  joy ; 
a  man  firm  to  their  interests,  and  determined  to  obstruct  all  the 
ambitious  attempts  of  Ccesar. 

Upon  Caesar's  going  to  Spain,  he  had  engaged  Crassus  to 
stand  bound  for  him  to  his  creditors,  who  were  clamorous  and 
troublesome,  as  far  as  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  sterling  : 
so  much  did  he  want  to  be  worth  nothing,  as  he  merril)^  said  of 
himself.  Crassus  hoped,  by  the  purchase  of  his  friendship,  to 
be  able  to  make  head  against  Pompey  in  the  administration  of 
public  affairs  ;  but  Caesar,  who  had  been  long  courting  Pompey, 
and  labouring  to  disengage  him  from  a  union  with  Cicero,  and 
the  aristocratical  interest,  easily  saw,  that  as  things  then  stood, 
their  joint  strength  would  avail  but  little  towards  obtaining  what 
they  aimed,  unless  they  could  induce  Pompey  also  to  join  with 
them  :  on  pretence,  therefore,  of  reconciling  Pompey  and  Crassus, 
who   had   been    constant    enemies,    he   formed    the    project    of  a 

VOL.  IV  C 


i8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


triple  league  between  the  three,  by  which  they  should  mutually 
oblige  themselves  to  promote  each  other's  interest,  and  to  act, 
nothing  but  by  common  agreement  :  to  this  Pompey  easily  con- 
sented, on  account  of  the  disgust  which  the  senate  had  impoliti- 
cally  given  him,  by  their  perverse  opposition  to  everything 
which  he  desired  or  attempted  in  the  state. 

This  is  commonly  called  the  first  triumvirate  ;  which  was 
nothing  else,  in  reality,  but  a  traitorous  conspiracy  of  three,  the 
most  powerful  citizens  of  Rome,  to  extort  from  their  country,  by 
violence,  what  they  could  not  obtain  by  law.  Pompey's  chief 
motive  was  to  get  his  acts  confirmed  by  Caesar  in  his  consul- 
ship ;  Caesar's,  by  giving  way  to  Pompey's  glory,  to  advance 
his  own  ;  and  Crassus's,  to  gain  that  ascendant,  which  he 
could  not  sustain  alone,  by  the  authority  of  Pompey  and  the 
vigour  of  Caesar.  But  Caesar,  who  formed  the  scheme,  easily 
saw  that  the  chief  advantage  of  it  would  necessarily  redound  to 
himself:  he  knew  that  the  old  enmity  between  the  other  two, 
though  it  might  be  palliated,  could  never  be  healed  without 
leaving  a  secret  jealousy  between  them  ;  and  as,  by  their  common 
help,  he  was  sure  to  make  himself  superior  to  all  others,  so,  by 
managing  the  one  ag'ainst  the  other,  he  hoped  to  gain,  at  last, 
a  superiority  also  over  them  both.  To  cement  this  union  there- 
fore the  more  strongly,  by  the  ties  of  blood,  as  well  as  interest, 
he  gave  his  daughter  Julia,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  young 
lady,  in  marriage  to  Pompey  :  and,  from  this  era,  all  the  Roman 
writers  date  the  origin  of  the  civil  wars  which  afterwards  ensued, 
and  the  subversion  of  the  Republic,  in  which  they  ended. 

.    .   .    fu  causa  malorum 
Facta  trihiis  dominis  co?nmunis  Roma. — Lucan,  i.  85. 

Hence  flowed  our  ills,  hence  all  that  civil  flame, 

When  Rome  the  common  slave  of  three  became. — Cicero. 

Cicero  might  have  made  what  terms  he  pleased  with  the 
triumvirate  ;  been  admitted  even  a  partner  of  their  power  and 
a  fourth  in  their  league,  which  seemed  to  want  a  man  of  his 
character  to  make  it  complete.  For  while  the  rest  were  engaged 
in  their  governments,  and  the  command  of  annies  abroad,  his 
authority  would  have  been  of  singular  use  at  home,  to  manage 
the  affairs  of  the  city,  and  solicit  what  they  had  to  transact  with 
the  senate  or  people.  Ccesar,  therefore,  was  extremely  desirous 
to  add  him   to  the  party,  or  to  engage  hini  rather  in  particular 


CON  VERS  MIDDLETON  19 

measures  with  himself;  and  no  sooner  entered  into  the  consul- 
ship, than  he  sent  him  word,  by  their  common  friend,  Balbus, 
that  he  would  be  governed  in  every  step  by  him  and  Pompey, 
with  whom  he  would  endeavour  to  join  Crassus  too.  But  Cicero 
would  not  enter  into  any  engagements,  jointly  with  the  three, 
whose  union  he  abhorred  ;  nor  into  private  measures  with  Ca?sar, 
whose  intentions  he  always  suspected.  He  thought  Pompey  the 
better  citizen  of  the  two  ;  took  his  views  to  be  less  dangerous 
and  his  temper  more  tractable  ;  and  imagined  that  a  separate 
alliance  with  him  would  be  sufficient  to  screen  him  from  the 
malice  of  his  enemies.  Yet  this  put  him  under  no  small  difficulty  ; 
for,  if  he  opposed  the  triumvirate,  he  could  not  expect  to  continue 
well  with  Pompey  ;  or  if  he  served  it,  with  the  senate  ;  in  the 
first,  he  saw  his  ruin,  in  the  second,  the  loss  of  his  credit.  He 
chose,  therefore,  what  the  wise  will  always  choose  in  such 
circumstances,  a  middle  way ;  to  temper  his  behaviour  so,  that, 
with  the  constancy  of  his  duty  to  the  Republic,  he  might  have 
a  regard  also  to  his  safety,  by  remitting  somewhat  of  his  old 
vigour  and  contention,  without  submitting  to  the  meanness  of 
consent  or  approbation  ;  and  when  his  authority  could  be  of  no 
use  to  his  country,  to  manage  their  new  masters  so  as  not  to 
irritate  their  power  to  his  own  destruction  ;  which  was  all  that 
he  desired.  This  was  the  scheme  of  politics,  which,  as  he 
often  laments,  the  weakness  of  the  honest,  the  perverseness  of 
the  envious,  and  the  hatred  of  the  wicked,  obliged  him  to  pursue. 

(From  the  Life  of  Cicero.) 


LETTER  TO  VENN 

Sir,  I  have  been  well  informed,  that  some  time  ago  you  took 
the  liberty  to  call  me  by  name  an  apostate  priest.  I  find  the 
same  calumny  more  publicly  repeated  in  the  Miscellany  of 
iStli  February,  on  a  certain  person,  not  named,  whose  writings 
have  had  the  misfortune  to  displease  you  ;  and  as  you  are  said 
to  be  concerned  in  the  furnishing  out  this  weekly  paper,  in 
partnership  with  another  worthy  divine,  so  I  cannot  avoid  con- 
sidering myself  as  the  object  of  your  abuse  in  both  cases. 

The  only  thing  that  puzzles  me,  is  to  discover  by  what  principle 
of  Christianity   you   think  yourself  justified  in   such  a  licence  of 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


calumniating  ;  or  how  you  can  imagine  a  behaviour  so  shocking 
to  good  nature,  good  sense,  and  g^ood  manners,  to  be  the  effect 
of  any  good  rehgion. 

There  must  needs  be  some  strange  mistake  between  us  on 
one  side  or  the  other.  The  word  rehgion,  perhaps,  may  have 
something  in  it  equivocal,  and  denote  quite  a  different  thing 
with  you  and  with  me.  If  your  religion  prescribes,  peiTnits,  or 
does  not  condemn,  all  such  defamation  as  impious  and  detestable, 
you  clear  me  at  once  of  apostasy  ;  for  that  religion  was  never 
mine  ;  and  I  cannot  be  charged  with  deserting  what  I  had  never 
professed. 

Be  so  good,  sir,  as  to  favour  me  with  some  account  of  this 
matter.  I  have  a  right,  I  think,  to  require  at  least  this  satisfac- 
tion. You  are  the  only  man  who  has  ventured  to  call  me  an 
apostate  ;  and  if  you  are  an  honest  man,  you  would  not  be 
particular  in  your  accusation  without  a  particular  assurance  of 
the  truth  of  it  ;  nor  so  forward  with  your  charge,  without  being 
as  ready  with  your  proof.  Tell  me,  then,  in  God's  name,  nay, 
tell  the  public  all  that  you  know  of  me  :  speak  out  freely  ;  charge 
everything,  that  cither  your  own  malice  suggests,  or  that  of  others 
has  supplied  you  with.  If  you  can  convict  me  of  anything 
immoral  or  irreligious,  of  any  apostacy  from  what  is  laudable  or 
virtuous,  I  will  take  shame  to  myself  and  own  it  ;  if  not,  shall 
seek  no  other  revenge  than  that  of  leaving  you  to  the  reproach 
of  your  conscience,  and  the  scorn  of  all  good  men. 

I  could  wish  likewise  to  be  informed,  of  what  use  it  can  be 
to  the  interest  of  Christianity,  of  what  advantage  to  relignon,  to 
proclaim  to  the  world  that  I  am  an  apostate.  Should  your 
Mtscellany  fall  into  the  hands  of  men  wavering  in  the  faith, 
staggering  at  eveiy  scruple,  shaken  by  every  breath  of  scandal, 
and  there  must  be  many  such  in  this  sceptical  age,  might  it  not 
be  of  weight  enough  in  the  equilibrium  of  their  doubts,  to  turn 
the  scale  on  the  infidel  side,  to  be  assured  by  you,  that  a  clergy- 
man, trained  in  the  bosom  of  the  church,  of  some  reputation  and 
many  friends,  after  a  life  spent  in  temperance,  study,  and  the 
search  of  truth,  had  by  choice  and  judgment  deserted  it  ?  It  is 
the  constant  policy  of  all  sects,  to  challenge  to  their  party  any 
man  of  merit,  supposed  even  on  the  slightest  grounds  to  have 
discovered  some  inclination  to  them  ;  but  your  absurd  zeal  would 
forcibly  drive  from  the  service  of  religion  men  of  virtue  and 
learning,  against  their  will,  against  their  profession,  against  truth. 


CON  VERS  MIDDLETON 


These  were  the  men,  who  first  began  the  clamour,  and  raised 
the  first  envy  upon  me  ;  and  I  am  now  but  paying  the  arrears  of 
that  old  grudge,  as  you  seem  to  intimate  in  this  very  Miscellany ; 
for  you  say,  that  it  was  natural  for  me  to  hate,  what  I  had  before 
betrayed  ;  as  if  there  was  a  guilt  upon  me,  previous  to  that  I  have 
been  lately  charged  with,  and  the  era  of  my  apostacy  was  to 
bear  the  same  date  with  my  Letter  from  Rome.  The  more 
I  reflect  on  your  rashness,  the  more  I  am  inclined  to  impute  it 
to  some  selfish  motive  of  interest,  some  hopes  of  glory  or  of  gain 
to  accrue  from  it.  It  is  common  with  the  writers  of  your  class  to 
run  the  risk  of  a  pillory  to  raise  the  fame  and  value  of  their  weekly 
productions  ;  and  we  read  of  a  hero  in  antiquity,  who  set  the 
temple  of  his  country  on  fire,  to  perpetuate  his  name  to  posterity. 
In  this  view  you  act  consistently,  though  in  all  views  wickedly. 
But  to  talk  of  reforming  morals,  and  recommending  religion,  by  a 
method  destructive  of  all  morality,  and  contrary  to  all  religion,  is 
a  mere  banter  and  affront  to  common  sense.  But  whilst  you  dis- 
pense so  freely  the  titles  of  profane  and  apostate,  let  me  recommend 
to  you  to  consider  the  history  of  that  first  and  chief  apostate,  the 
pattern,  as  well  as  author,  of  every  apostacy  in  the  world.  You 
will  find  his  abominable  qualities  summed  up  in  this  short  char- 
acter, "  The  accuser  of  the  brethren  "  (Rev.  xii.  lo).  You  will  find 
him  described  as  defaming  day  and  night  ;  continually  going 
about  roaiing  and  seeking  to  devour.  This,  says  St.  John,  "  is 
the  old  dragon,  which  is  the  Devil,  and  Satan  (Rev.  xx.  2).  And 
what,  sir,  is  the  Devil,  that  is  Satan,  but  names  drawn  from  his 
very  essence,  signifying  the  adversary,  the  hater,  the  accuser  of 
mankind  ?  His  followers,  like  their  master,  are  described  by  David, 
under  the  pei'son  of  Doeg,  the  malicious  accuser  of  the  priests, 
"  with  tongues  that  devise  mischief,  that  love  devouring  words  " 
(Psal.  lii.  2,  4)  ;  and  as  "  men  set  on  fire,  whose  teeth  are  spears 
and  arrows,  and  their  tongue  a  sharp  sword  "  (Psal.  Ivii.  4).  This 
is  the  grand,  the  sovereign  apostasy,  the  defection  from  all  religion  ; 
a  delight  in  defaming,  an  alacrity  in  accusing  ;  and  I  leave  it  to 
you  to  determine,  where  the  reproach  of  it  is  the  most  likely  to 
fall,  on  yourself  or  on  me.  You  have  called  me  an  apostate  ;  all 
people,  I  daresay,  or  at  least  all  who  know  me,  will  be  shocked  at 
it  ;  but  should  I  chance  to  describe  a  certain  priest  by  the  title  of 
the  accuser,  there  is  scarce  a  man  in  England  who  would  not 
immediately  think  on  Mr.  Venn.  A  reflection  sufficient,  methinks, 
to  admonish  you,  that   instead   of  being  so  busy  with   other  men's 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


characters,  it  behoves  you  much  more  to  turn  your  thoughts  and 
attention  to  your  own. 

But  if  it  be  possible,  after  all,  that  I  should  ever  have  it  in  my 
power  to  say  of  you,  what  you  declare  of  me,  that  through  a  con- 
viction of  your  wickedness,  you  had  changed  your  conduct,  and 
desisted  from  calumniating  ;  I  should  still  act  on  this,  as  I  shall 
do  on  every  occasion,  just  contrary  to  the  example  you  set  me  ; 
I  should  rejoice  in  the  change,  begin  to  entertain  hopes  and  a 
better  opinion  of  you,  and  forget  the  accuser  to  applaud  the  con- 
vert. 

CONYERS  MiDDLETON. 


A  DEFENCE  OF   FREE   ENQUIRY   IN    RELIGION 

If  the  religion  of  a  country  was  to  be  considered  only  as  an  im- 
posture ;  an  engine  of  government  to  keep  the  people  in  order  ; 
even  then  an  endeavour  to  unhinge  it,  unless  with  a  design  to 
substitute  a  better  in  its  stead,  would  in  my  opinion  be  highly 
unreasonable.  But  should  the  priests  of  such  a  religion,  for  the 
sake  of  their  authority  and  power,  labour  to  impose  their  own 
failures  for  divine  truths  ;  to  possess  the  people  with  an  enthusi- 
astic zeal  for  them  ;  manageable  only  by  themselves  and  to  be 
played  even  against  the  government,  as  oft  as  it  served  their 
separate  interests  ;  in  such  a  case,  'tis  the  duty  of  every  man 
who  loves  his  country  and  his  fellow  creatures,  to  oppose  all  such 
attempts  ;  to  confine  religion  to  its  proper  bounds  ;  to  the  use  for 
which  it  was  instituted  ;  of  inspiring  benevolence,  modesty,  sub- 
mission into  the  people  ;  nor  suffer  the  credit  of  it  to  grow  too 
strong  for  that  of  the  State  ;  the  authority  of  the  priest,  for  that 
of  the  magistrate. 

Was  religt^ion,  I  say,  to  be  considered  as  an  imposture,  all  men 
would  think  this  conduct  reasonable ;  and  where  it  is  really  a 
revelation  from  heaven,  the  case  is  not  altered,  as  far  as  the  end 
of  that  revelation  is  perverted  and  abused  by  the  arts  or  the  folly 
of  men  ;  as  the  Jewish  was  by  the  Pharisees  ;  the  Christian  by 
some  of  its  modern  advocates.  In  such  circumstances,  in  propor- 
tion as  a  man  values  his  religion,  and  believes  it  to  be  of  God,  he 
will  exert  himself  to  clear  it  from  all  human  impositions  ;  which 
render  it  either  of  no  effect,  or  of  a  mischievous  one  to  society  ; 
propagating'  rage  and  strife  and  every  evil  work,  instead  of  the 


CONVERS  MIDDLETON  23 

peace  and  happiness  'twas  designed  to  introduce.  And  if  the  end 
of  all  revelation  be  to  enforce  with  greater  vigour,  and  by  means 
more  affecting  to  sense,  the  obligations  of  the  natural  law  ;  those 
priests  are  the  truest  friends  to  God  and  man,  who  labour  to  adapt 
it  the  most  effectually  to  that  end  ;  to  expound  it  by  the  known 
principles  of  reason  and  morality ;  and  to  make  it  amiable,  by 
making  it  plain,  rational,  intelligible  to  common  understandings. 

As  for  those,  who  take  the  contrary  way  ;  who  either  deny 
all  natural  law,  or  make  it  bend  as  they  please,  to  their  own  com- 
ments on  Scripture  ;  who  build  religion  on  a  principle  of  faith, 
distinct  from  reason  ;  look  on  the  latter  with  a  jealous  eye,  as  an 
instrument  and  engine  of  Satan ;  who  measure  all  truth  by 
authority ;  all  credibility  by  testimony  ;  by  which  authority  still 
and  testimony  they  mean  little  more  than  their  own,  and  to  draw 
the  greater  dependence  on  themselves  ;  for  these  writers,  I  say, 
'tis  the  duty  of  every  rational  Christian  to  expose  their  principles 
as  slavish  and  superstitious  ;  destructive  of  that  good,  for  which 
all  religion  was  given  ;  turning  the  best  thing  in  the  world  into 
the  worst ;  a  revelation  from  heaven,  into  a  doctrine  hurtful  and 
pernicious  to  mankind. 

And  where  religion,  as  with  us,  is  received  as  of  divine  authority, 
and  on  the  best  grounds  and  reasons  embraced  as  such,  though  I 
greatly  condemn  the  perverseness  of  contesting  truths  so  strongly 
established,  yet  1  cannot  think  it  agreeable  either  to  reason  or 
religion  to  punish  even  such  as  are  hardy  enough  to  call  in  cjuestion 
the  reality  of  revelation  itself,  for  'tis  the  greatest  weakness  and 
absurdity  to  think  that  truth  can  ever  be  hurt  by  any  examination 
whatsoever  ;  it  may  be  oppressed  awhile  by  faction,  stifled  by 
power ;  but  in  a  free  debate,  as  in  free  air  and  exercise,  it  always 
regains  its  strength  and  vigour  ;  controversy  to  truth  is  like  a 
gentle  wind  to  trees  ;  it  shakes  the  head  but  fastens  the  root. 
Truth  is  naturally  so  amiable,  that  wherever  'tis  exposed  to  view 
it  necessarily  draws  all  to  admire  it,  and  the  more  'tis  exposed, 
the  more  strongly  it  attracts.  Where  artifice  indeed  and  fraud 
])revail  in  the  stead  of  it,  there  all  inquiry  must  industriously  be 
discouraged  as  a  dangerous  and  fatal  enemy,  sure  to  detect  and 
expose  the  cheat  ;  and  wherever  'tis  discouraged,  there  is  always 
some  reason  to  suspect  some  latent  imposture  ;  now  as  sure  as 
truth  and  falsehood  are  contrary  to  each  other,  so  sure  it  is  that 
the  same  method  of  treating  them  cannot  possibly  be  of  service 
in  both. 


24  ENGLISH  PROSE 


As  far  as  my  experience  has  reached,  either  in  ancient  or 
modern  history,  there's  not  an  instance  on  record,  where  a  fair 
examination  has  ever  done  harm  to  a  good  cause.  The  attacks 
on  Christianity,  urged  on  by  its  warmest  enemies,  ahvays  turn  to 
its  advantage  ;  they  engage  the  clergy  to  study  and  search  into 
the  true  grounds  of  it ;  keep  them  in  breath  and  exercise,  and 
train  them  by  constant  disciphne  to  be  able  champions  and  de- 
fenders of  it ;  they  clear  religion  itself  of  all  the  dust  and  rubbish, 
which  by  the  negligence  or  the  art  of  its  managers,  it  may  have 
contracted  ;  and  above  all,  they  enforce  and  lay  open  the  genuine 
proofs  of  it,  which  by  time  itself,  naturally  grow  languid  and 
ineffectual,  till  a  new  debate  like  a  new  publication  sends  them 
fresh  again  into  the  world,  in  their  original  force  and  lustre. 

'Tis  then  my  firm  principle  and  persuasion  that  a  free  inquiry 
into  all  points  of  religion  is  always  useful  and  beneficial ;  and  for 
that  reason  never  to  be  punished  or  prohibited.  It  opens  the 
minds  and  reforms  the  manners  of  the  people ;  makes  them 
reasonable,  sociable,  governable  ;  easy  to  such  as  differ  from  them, 
and  as  little  scandalised  at  the  different  opinion,  as  the  different 
complexion  of  their  neighbour ;  whereas  the  restraint  of  this 
liberty,  and  the  imposition  of  systems  and  articles,  that  must  be 
called  in  question,  nourishes  a  churlish  spirit  of  bigotry,  uncharit- 
ableness,  enthusiasm,  which  no  civil  power  can  moderate  ;  a  spirit 
that  has  so  oft  involved  mankind  in  wars  and  bloodshed  ;  and  by 
turns  endangered  the  ruin  of  every  Christian  country  in  the  world. 

(From  Remarks  on  Observations  to  the  Author  of  a  Letter 
to  Dr.  Waterland.) 


BISHOP  BERKELEY 


[George  Berkeley  was  born  near  Kilkenny  on  the  i6th  March  1685,  and 
was  educated  at  the  Grammar  School  of  that  town,  going  thence  at  the  age 
of  fifteen  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  remained  in  residence  there  till  he 
was  eight  and  twenty,  and  during  the  latter  years  of  this  residence,  young  as 
he  was,  produced  his  most  remarkable  philosophical  works — the  New  Theory 
of  Vision  in  1709,  the  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge  in  1710,  and  the 
Dialogues  of  Hylas  and  Philonous  in  1713.  In  the  last  named  year  he  went 
to  London,  where  Swift,  who  was  then  at  the  zenith  of  his  influence,  intro- 
duced him  to  the  wits  and  the  great.  After  staying  some  time  in  the  capital, 
Berkeley  travelled  for  nearly  seven  years  as  tutor  to  more  than  one  pupil,  and 
returned  to  Ireland  in  1721.  He  resigned  his  Fellowship  in  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  three  years  later,  on  being  appointed  to  the  valuable  deanery  of  Derry. 
But  he  shortly  afterwards  took  up  his  famous  scheme  of  a  Missionary  College 
at  the  Bermudas,  and,  having  obtained  a  promise  of  a  government  grant  and 
married,  set  out  for  America,  where  he  lived  for  three  years  at  Rhode  Island. 
His  hopes,  however,  were  deceived  ;  the  gi^ant,  though  voted,  was  withdrawn, 
and  he  returned  in  1731,  publishing  ne.xt  year  the  liveliest  and  most  literary 
of  his  works,  Alciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philosopher.  In  1734  he  was  made 
Bishop  of  Cloyne,  and  lived  there,  a  model  bishop,  for  eighteen  years,  doing 
much  good,  and  publishing  his  Querist,  and  his  curious  speculations  on  tar- 
water  and  other  things,  which  were  formally  embodied  in  the  quaint  but 
admirable  work  called  Sir  is.  His  health  becoming  very  weak  he  went  to 
Oxford  for  change,  and  died  in  January  1753,  six  months  after  his  arrival 
there.  His  works  were  never  completely  published  till  twenty  years  ago, 
when  they  appeared  at  the  Clarendon  Press,  under  the  care  of  Professor  Fraser. 
But  the  older  editions,  which  are  numerous,  though  lacking  much  matter 
of,  biographical  interest  and  curiosity,  contain  all  the  great  philosophical  and 
literary  pieces  which  made,  and  which  will,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  ever  preserve 
his  fame.] 

To  any  one  who  combines  a  fondness  for  metaphysical  study  with 
some  sense  both  of  perfection  in  hterature  and  perfection  in 
humanity  it  is  rather  difficult  to  write  about  Berkeley  with  due 
critical  detachment.  The  assignment  of  "  every  virtue  under 
heaven  to  hiin "  was  made  early,  and  should  have  necessarily 
excited  the  not  wholly  unhealthy  feeling  of  antagonism  which 
greeted  the  description  of  Aristides.      But  Berkeley  has  "  passed 


26  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  pikes  "  of  a  century  and  more  of  unqualified  analysis,  not  only 
without  any  loss,  but  with  a  positive  increase  of  fame.  His 
astonishing  intellectual  vigour,  and  his  perfect  literary  art,  could 
have  borne  with  depreciation  of  his  personal  character.  But  no 
such  depreciation  has  ever  been  seriously  attempted  ;  none  such 
has  ever  had  the  least  chance  of  success.  In  two  of  these  respects 
there  is  not  much  which  could  properly  be  dealt  with  here  at  any 
great  length.  Berkeley  was  an  almost  perfect  model  of  a  Christian 
gentleman,  a  pattern  of  that  sort  of  character  which,  though  it 
may  at  one  time  be  held  conventional,  and  at  another  go  out  of 
fashion,  emerg"es  again  and  again  from  the  ruins  of  time  in  pretty 
identical  condition.  Through  all  the  storms  and  quicksands  of 
the  history  of  philosophy  his  repute  passes  unscathed,  as 
hardly  any  other  since  the  great  masters  of  Greek  thought  has 
passed.  He  is  one  of  the  most  eminent  and  constant  of  what  the 
late  Mr.  Arnold,  borrowing  the  phrase  from  the  French,  used  to  call 
poi}its  dc  rcpcre.  He  is  one  of  those  who  make  an  end,  and  who 
maintain  themselves  victoriously  at  that  end.  He  might  have 
been  impossible  without  Locke,  but  he  seized  the  essentials  of  the 
Lockian  doctrine  without  delay,  and  consciously  or  unconsciously 
all  subsequent  philosophers  have  either  recoiled  from  the  impreg- 
nable fortress  of  his  idealism  into  devious  paths  intended  to  cir- 
cumvent it,  have  "masked"  it,  or  have  endeavoured  to  attack  its 
apparently  antiquated  but  still  solid  curtains  and  bastions  with  this 
or  that  device,  suitable  to  the  passing  fashions  of  the  day.  All 
Kantian  and  post-Kantian  philosophy,  that  is  to  say,  all  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  world  for  the  last  century,  professedly  and  honestly 
dates  itself  from  Hume.  And  Hume,  again,  by  the  honest  confes- 
sion of  all  competent  criticism,  did  little  but  apply  an  acute  but 
unimaginative  intellect  partly  to  the  caricature  and  partly  to  the 
evasion  of  the  conclusions  of  Berkeley. 

These  things,  however,  great  as  they  are,  belong  to  another 
department  of  enquiry.  We  have  to  do  with  Berkeley  here  as 
with  a  great  writer  of  English  prose.  And  here,  fortunately,  there 
is  even  less  possibility  of  difference  between  competent  persons 
than  elsewhere.  Berkeley  had  almost  every  advantag'e  that  a 
writer  can  hope  for.  He  was  born  with  a  solid  English  intellect, 
and  a  quick  Irish  wit ;  he  was  thoroughly  well  educated  ;  he  was 
not  forced  by  indigence  to  the  premature  employment  of  his  liter- 
ary gifts  in  manners  and  on  subjects  unworthy  of  himself  But 
the  gifts  of  fortune  to  him  were  greater  even  than   the  statement 


BISHOP  BERKELE  Y  27 


of  these  things  shows.  The  period  of  his  birth  set  him  at  one  of 
these  moments  when  men  of  Hterary  gifts  have  the  opportunity 
of  using  a  comparatively  new  Hterary  style  before  it  has  become 
hackneyed  or  exaggerated,  and  while  it  is  still  crisp  and  effective. 
He  was  born  when  Dryden  and  Tillotson  and  Halifax  and  Temple 
were  still  shaping  the  new  English  prose  ;  he  reached  the  prime 
of  early  manhood  when  the  great  essayists  were  suppling  and 
refining  it  ;  he  was  introduced  to  them  and  their  society  in  a 
manner  which  put  at  his  disposal  those  influences  of  coterie  or 
clique  which,  if  they  have  never  long  succeeded  in  keeping  vogue 
for  anything  that  was  bad,  have  sometimes  been  fatally  lacking  to 
that  which  was  good.  And  even  this  did  not  exhaust  his  good 
luck.  He  fell  in,  at  the  veiy  flush  of  his  talent  and  energy,  with 
two  movements,  a  philosophical  and  a  religious,  which  were  of  all 
possible  things  suited  to  his  genius.  Born  a  little  earlier,  he 
would  either  have  had  to  work  out  the  Lockian  destructive  criti- 
cism for  himself,  or  have  wasted  himself  in  uncertain  gropings, 
like  his  great  predecessors  Cudworth  and  Norris.  Born  a  little 
later,  he  would  have  fallen  in  with  that  period  of  the  eighteenth 
century  when  metaphysical  enquiries  proper  were  tabooed,  and 
when  his  own  special  philosophical  faculty  would  have  met  with 
little  respect  and  less  sympathy.  So  in  religion  his  gifts  of  thought 
and  style  were  exactly  suited  to  cope  with  the  crude  fanaticism  of 
the  earlier  deists,  and  the  strictly  negative  criticism  of  men 
like  Middleton.  But  the  hour  would  have  been  nothing  if  the 
man  had  not  been  so  thoroughly  suited  to  it.  It  may  seem  to 
some,  after  reading  philosophers  of  all  ages,  from  Plato  to  Schopen- 
hauer, and  from  Erigena  to  Descartes,  that  there  are  only  three 
styles  perfectly  suited  to  philosophy,  that  they  are  those  of  Plato 
himself,  of  Malebranche,  and  of  Berkeley.  In  all  philosophical 
writing  there  is  a  certain  antinomy.  By  so  much  as  it  is  popular, 
figurative,  literary,  imaginative,  it  seems  to  lack  philosophical 
precision  ;  by  so  much  as  it  is  technical,  austere,  unliterary,  and 
what  has  been  called  "jargonish,"  it  loses  humanity  and  general 
appeal.  If  the  golden  mean  was  ever  hit  between  these  extremes 
it  seems  to  have  been  hit  in  the  style  of  Berkeley.  Take  the 
more  popular  expositions  of  it  as  in  Alciphron  and  Siris,  the  less 
popular  as  in  the  Theory  of  Vision,  or  Hylas  and  Philonoiis,  com- 
pare them  together,  note  their  excellences,  and,  if  any  can  be 
detected  allow  for  their  defects,  and  such  a  philosophical  medium  as 
nowhere  else  exists  will,  I  believe,  be  found.      A  crystalline  clear- 


28  ENGLISH  PROSE 


ness,  a  g'olden  eloquence,  a  supreme  urbanity,  a  mixture  of  fancy 
and  logic  which  is  nowhere  else  discernible  except  in  Plato,  an 
allowance  for  sentiment  and  unction  which  exists  side  by  side 
with  a  readiness  to  play  the  game  of  sheer  rough-and-tumble 
argument  at  any  moment  and  with  any  adversary  ;  a  preciseness 
of  phrase  which  is  never  dull  or  dry  ;  a  felicity  of  ornament  and 
illustration  which  never  condescends  to  the  merely  popular  or 
trivial,  and  is  never  used  to  cloak  controversial  feebleness  ;  an 
incapacity  of  petulance,  and  an  omnipresence  of  good  breeding — 
these  are  the  characteristics  of  the  style  of  Berkeley.  Since  his 
time  only  one  analogue  has  appeared  to  him,  and  that  analogue 
exhibits  rather  glaringly  the  defects  of  the  qualities  which,  without 
defects,  Berkeley  possessed.  Take  reverence,  logic,  and  taste 
from  Berkeley,  and  there  would  be  left  an  English  version  of  the 
late  M.  Renan  ;  add  taste,  reverence,  and  logic  to  M.  Renan, 
and  you  would  hardly  have  made  a  Berkeley.  Nay,  if  Berkeley 
is  inferior,  as  he  no  doubt  is,  to  Plato,  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  inferiority  is  due  to  any  other  cause  than  the  inferi- 
ority of  the  English  of  the  eighteenth  century  after  Christ,  as  a 
medium  of  literary  expression,  to  the  Greek  of  the  fourth  century 
before. 

George  Saintsbury. 


THE  ADVANTAGES   OF   IMMATERIALISM 

As  a  balance,  therefore,  to  this  weight  of  prejudice,  let  us  throw 
into  the  scale  the  great  advantages  that  arise  from  the  belief  of 
immaterialism,  both  in  regard  to  religion  and  human  learning. 
The  being  of  a  God,  and  incorruptibility  of  the  soul,  those  great 
articles  of  religion,  are  they  not  proved  with  the  clearest  and  most 
immediate  evidence  ?  When  I  say  the  being  of  a  God,  I  do  not 
mean  an  obscure  general  cause  of  things,  whereof  we  have  no 
conception,  but  God,  in  the  strict  and  proper  sense  of  the  word. 
A  being  whose  spirituality,  omnipresence,  providence,  omnisci- 
ence, infinite  power  and  goodness,  arc  as  conspicuous  as  the 
existence  of  sensible  things,  of  which  (notwithstanding  the  falla- 
cious pretences  and  affected  scruples  of  sceptics)  there  is  no  more 
reason  to  doubt,  than  of  our  own  being.  Then  with  relation  to 
human  sciences  :  in  natural  philosophy,  w  hat  intricacies,  what 
obscurities,  what  contradictions  hath  the  belief  of  matter  led  men 
into  I  To  say  nothing''  about  the  numberless  disputes  about  its 
extent,  continuity,  homogeneity,  gravity,  divisibility,  etc.,  do  they 
not  pretend  to  explain  all  these  things  by  bodies  operating  on 
bodies,  according  to  the  laws  of  motion  ?  and  yet,  are  they  able 
to  comprehend  how  any  one  body  should  move  another  ?  Nay, 
admitting  there  was  no  difficulty  in  reconciling  the  notion  of  an 
innate  body  with  a  cause  ;  or  in  conceiving  how  an  accident 
might  pass  from  one  body  to  another  ;  yet,  by  all  their  strained 
thoughts  and  extravagant  suppositions,  have  they  been  able  to 
reach  the  mechanical  production  of  any  one  animal  or  vegetable 
body  ?  Can  they  account,  by  the  laws  of  motion,  for  sounds, 
tastes,  smells,  or  colours,  or  for  the  regular  course  of  things  ? 
Have  they  accounted  by  physical  principles  for  the  aptitude  and 
contrivance,  even  of  the  most  inconsiderable  parts  of  the  universe  ? 
But  laying  aside  matter  and  corporeal  causes,  and  admitting  only 
the  efficiency  of  an  all-perfect  mind,  are  not  all  the  effects  of 
nature  easy  and  intelligible  ?      If  the  phenomena  arc  nothing   else 


30  ENGLISH  PROSE 


but  ideas  ;  God  is  a  spirit,  but  matter  an  unintelligent,  unper- 
ceiving  being.  If  they  demonstrate  an  unlimited  power  in  their 
cause  ;  God  is  active  and  omnipotent,  but  matter  an  inert  mass. 
If  the  order,  regularity,  and  usefulness  of  them  can  never  be 
sufficiently  admired  ;  God  is  infinitely  wise  and  provident,  but 
matter  destitute  of  all  contrivance  and  design.  These  surely  are 
great  advantages  in  physics.  Not  to  mention  that  the  appre- 
hension of  a  distant  Deity  naturally  disposes  men  to  a  negligence 
in  their  moral  actions,  which  they  would  be  more  cautious  of,  in 
case  they  thought  him  immediately  present,  and  acting  on  their 
minds  without  the  interposition  of  matter,  or  unthinking  second 
causes.  Then  in  metaphysics  ;  what  difficulties  concerning  entity 
in  abstract,  substantial  fomis,  hylarchic  principles,  plastic  natures, 
substance  and  accident,  principle  of  individuation,  possibility  of 
matters  thinking,  origin  of  ideas,  the  manner  how  two  inde- 
pendent substances  so  widely  different  as  spirit  and  matter, 
should  mutually  operate  on  each  other  ?  what  difficulties,  I  say, 
and  endless  disquisitions  concerning  these  and  innumerable  other 
the  like  points,  do  we  escape  by  supposing  only  spirits  and  ideas  ? 
Even  the  mathematics  themselves,  if  we  take  away  the  absolute 
existence  of  extended  things,  become  much  more  clear  and  easy  ; 
the  most  shocking  paradoxes  and  intricate  speculations,  in  those 
sciences  depending  on  the  infinite  divisibility  of  finite  extension, 
which  depends  on  that  supposition.  But  what  need  is  there  to 
insist  on  the  particular  sciences  ?  Is  not  that  opposition  to  all 
science  whatsoever,  the  phrensy  of  the  ancient  and  modern 
sceptics,  built  on  the  same  foundation  ?  Or  can  you  produce  so 
much  as  one  argument  against  the  reality  of  corporeal  things,  or 
in  behalf  of  that  avowed  utter  ignorance  of  their  natures,  which 
doth  not  suppose  their  reality  to  consist  in  an  external  absolute 
existence  ?  Upon  this  supposition,  indeed,  the  objection  from 
the  change  of  colours  in  a  pigeon's  neck,  or  the  appearances  of  a 
broken  oar  in  the  water,  must  be  allowed  to  have  weight.  But 
these  and  the  like  objections  vanish,  if  we  do  not  maintain  the 
being  of  absolute  external  originals,  but  place  the  reality  of  things 
in  ideas,  fleeting  indeed,  and  changeable,  however  not  changed 
at  random,  but  according  to  the  fixed  order  of  nature.  For 
herein  consists  that  constancy  and  truth  of  things,  which  secures 
all  the  concerns  of  life,  and  distinguishes  that  which  is  real  from 
the  irregular  visions  of  the  fancy. 

(From  Tliird  Dialogue  of  Hylas  and  Philonnus.') 


BISHOP  BERKELE  Y 


THE  VIRTUES    OF   VICE 

Next  morning,  Alciphron  and  Lysicles  said  the  weather  was 
so  fine  that  they  had  a  mind  to  spend  the  day  abroad,  and  take  a 
cold  dinner  under  a  shade  in  some  pleasant  part  of  the  country. 
Whereupon,  after  breakfast,  we  went  down  to  a  beach  about  half 
a  mile  off;  where  we  walked  on  the  smooth  sand,  with  the  ocean 
on  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  wild  broken  rocks,  intermixed  with 
shady  trees  and  springs  of  water,  till  the  sun  began  to  be  uneasy. 
We  then  withdrew  into  a  hollow  glade,  between  two  rocks,  where 
we  had  no  sooner  seated  ourselves  than  Lysicles,  addressing  him- 
self to  Euphranor,  said  : — "  I  am  now  ready  to  perform  what  I 
undertook  last  evening,  which  was  to  show  that  there  is  nothing 
in  that  necessary  connection  which  some  men  imagine  between 
those  principles  you  contend  for,  and  the  public  good.  I  freely 
own  that,  if  this  question  were  to  be  decided  by  the  authority  of 
legislators  or  philosophers,  it  must  go  against  us.  For  these  men 
generally  take  it  for  granted  that  vice  is  pernicious  to  the  public  ; 
and  that  men  cannot  be  kept  from  vice  but  by  the  fear  of  God, 
and  the  sense  of  a  future  state  :  whence  they  are  induced  to  think 
the  belief  of  such  things  necessary  to  the  wellbeing  of  human 
kind.  This  false  notion  hath  prevailed  for  many  ages  in  the 
world,  and  done  an  infinite  deal  of  mischief,  being  in  tmth  the 
cause  of  religious  establishments,  and  gaining  the  protection  and 
encouragement  of  laws  and  magistrates  to  the  clergy  and  their 
superstitions.  Even  some  of  the  wisest  among  the  ancients,  who 
agreed  with  our  sect  in  denying  a  Providence  and  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  had  nevertheless  the  weakness  to  be  under  the 
common  prejudice  that  vice  was  hurtful  to  societies  of  men.  But 
England  hath  of  late  produced  great  philosophers  who  have 
undeceived  the  world,  and  proved  to  a  demonstration  that  private 
vices  are  public  benefits.  This  discovery  was  reserved  to  our 
times,  and  our  sect  hath  the  glory  of  it." 

Crito.  "  It  is  possible  some  men  of  fine  understanding  might 
in  former  ages  have  had  a  glimpse  of  this  important  truth  ;  but 
it  may  be  presumed  they  lived  in  ignorant  times  and  bigoted 
countries,  which  were  not  ripe  for  such  a  discovery." 

Lysicles.    "  Men  of  narrow  capacities  and   short    sight,   Ix-ing 


32  ENGLISH  PROSE 


able  to  see  no  further  than  one  hnk  in  a  chain  of  consequences, 
are  shocked  at  small  evils  which  attend  upon  vice.  But  those 
who  can  enlarge  their  view,  and  look  through  a  long  series  of 
events,  may  behold  happiness  resulting  from  vice,  and  good 
springing  out  of  evil  in  a  thousand  instances.  To  prove  my 
point  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  authorities  or  far-fetched  argu- 
ments, but  bring  you  to  plain  matter  of  fact.  Do  but  take  a  view 
of  each  particular  vice,  and  trace  it  through  its  effects  and  con- 
sequences, and  then  you  will  clearly  perceive  the  advantage  it 
brings  to  the  public. 

"  Drunkenness,  for  instance,  is  by  your  sober  moralists  thought 
a  pernicious  vice,  but  it  is  for  want  of  considering  the  good  effects 
that  flow  from  it.  For,  in  the  first  place,  it  increases  the  malt- 
tax,  a  principal  source  of  his  Majesty's  revenue,  and  thereby 
promotes  the  safety,  strength,  and  gloiy  of  the  nation.  Secondly, 
it  employs  a  great  number  of  hands,  the  brewer,  the  maltster,  the 
ploughman,  the  dealer  in  hops,  the  smith,  the  carpenter,  the 
brasier,  the  joiner,  with  all  other  artificers  necessary  to  supply 
those  enumerated  with  their  respective  instruments  and  utensils. 
All  which  advantages  are  procured  from  drunkenness  in  the 
vulgar  way,  by  strong  beer.  This  point  is  so  clear  it  will  admit 
of  no  dispute.  But  while  you  are  forced  to  allow  this  much,  I 
foresee  you  are  ready  to  object  against  drunkenness  occasioned 
by  wines  and  spirits,  as  exporting  wealth  into  foreign  countries. 
But  you  do  not  reflect  on  the  number  of  hands  which  even  this 
sets  on  work  at  home  ;  the  distillers,  the  vintners,  the  merchants, 
the  sailors,  the  shipwrights,  with  all  those  who  are  employed 
towards  victualling  and  fitting  out  ships,  which,  upon  a  nice  com- 
putation, will  be  found  to  include  an  incredible  variety  of  trades 
and  callings.  Then,  for  freighting  our  ships  to  answer  these 
foreign  importations,  all  our  manufacturers  throughout  the  king- 
dom are  employed,  the  spinners,  the  weavers,  the  dyers,  the  wool- 
combers,  the  carriers,  the  packers.  And  the  same  may  be  said 
of  many  other  manufactures,  as  well  as  the  woollen.  And  if  it  be 
further  considered,  how  many  men  are  connected  by  all  the  fore- 
mentioned  ways  of  trade  and  business,  and  the  expenses  of  these 
men  and  their  families,  in  all  the  several  articles  of  convenient 
and  fashionable  living,  whereby  all  sorts  of  trades  and  callings, 
not  only  at  home,  but  throughout  all  parts  wherever  our  commerce 
reaches,  are  kept  in  employment  ;  you  will  be  amazed  at  the 
wonderfully  extended  scene  of  benefits  which  arise  from  the  single 


BISHOP  BERKELEY 


vice  of  drunkenness,  so  much  run  down  and  declaimed  against 
by  all  grave  reformers.  With  as  much  judgment  your  half-witted 
folks  are  accustomed  to  censure  gaming.  And  indeed  (such  is 
the  ignorance  and  folly  of  mankind)  a  gamester  and  a  drunkard 
are  thought  no  better  than  public  nuisances,  when,  in  truth,  they 
do  each  in  their  way  greatly  conduce  to  the  public  benefit.  If 
you  look  only  on  the  surface  and  first  appearance  of  things,  you 
will  no  doubt  think  playing  at  cards  a  very  idle  and  fruitless 
occupation.  But  dive  deeper,  and  you  shall  perceive  this  idle 
amusement  employs  the  card-maker,  and  he  sets  the  paper-mills 
at  work,  by  which  the  poor  rag-man  is  supported  ;  not  to  mention 
the  builders  and  workers  in  wood  and  iron  that  are  employed  in 
erecting  and  furnishing  these  mills.  Look  still  deeper,  and  you 
shall  find  that  candles  and  chair-hire  employ  the  industrious  and 
the  poor,  who  by  these  means  come  to  be  relieved  by  sharpers 
and  gentlemen,  who  would  not  give  one  penny  in  charity.  But 
you  will  say  that  many  gentlemen  and  ladies  are  ruined  by  play, 
without  considering  that  what  one  man  loses  another  gets,  and 
that  consequently  as  many  are  made  as  ruined  :  money  changeth 
hands,  and  in  this  circulation  the  life  of  business  and  commerce 
consists.  When  money  is  spent,  it  is  all  one  to  the  public  who 
spends  it.  Suppose  a  fool  of  quality  becomes  the  dupe  of  a  man 
of  mean  birth  and  circumstance,  who  has  more  wit ;  in  this  case 
what  harm  doth  the  public  sustain  ?  Poverty  is  relieved,  ingenuity 
is  rewarded,  the  money  stays  at  home,  and  has  a  lively  circulation, 
the  ingenious  sharper  being  enabled  to  set  up  an  equipage  and 
spend  handsomely,  which  cannot  be  done  without  employing  a 
world  of  people.  But  you  will  perhaps  object  that  a  man  reduced 
by  play  may  be  put  upon  desperate  courses,  hurtful  to  the  public. 
Suppose  the  worst,  and  that  he  turns  highwayman  ;  such  men 
have  a  short  life  and  a  meny.  While  he  "lives,  he  spends,  and 
for  one  that  he  robs  makes  twenty  the  better  for  his  expense. 
And  when  his  time  is  come,  a  poor  family  may  be  relieved  by 
fifty  or  a  hundred  pounds  set  upon  his  head.  A  vulgar  eye  looks 
on  many  a  man  as  an  idle  or  mischievous  fellow  whom  a  true 
philosopher,  viewing  in  another  light,  considers  as  a  man  of 
pleasant  occupation  who  diverts  himself,  and  benefits  the  public  ; 
and  that  with  so  much  ease,  that  he  employs  a  multitude  of  men, 
and  sets  an  infinite  machine  in  motion,  without  knowing  the  good 
he  does,  or  even  intending  to  do  any  ;  which  is  peculiar  to  that 
gentleman-like  way  of  doing  good  Ijy  vice.  I  was  considering 
VOL.  IV  D 


34  ENGLISH  PROSE 


play,  and  that  insensibly  led  me  to  the  advantages  which  attend 
robbing  on  the  highway.  O  the  beautiful  and  never-enough- 
admired  connection  of  vices  !  It  would  take  too  much  time  to 
show  how  they  all  hang  together,  and  what  an  infinite  deal  of 
good  takes  its  rise  from  every  one  of  them.  One  word  for  a 
favourite  vice,  and  I  shall  leave  you  to  make  out  the  rest  your- 
self, by  applying  the  same  mode  of  reasoning  to  all  other  vices. 
A  poor  girl,  who  might  not  have  the  spending  of  half-a-crown  a 
week  in  what  you  call  an  honest  way,  no  sooner  hath  the  good 
fortune  to  be  a  kept  mistress,  but  she  employs  milliners,  laun- 
dresses, tire-women,  mercers,  and  a  number  of  other  trades,  to 
the  benefit  of  her  country.  It  would  be  endless  to  trace  and 
pursue  every  particular  vice  through  its  consequences  and  effects, 
and  show  the  vast  advantage  they  all  are  of  to  the  public.  The 
true  springs  that  actuate  the  great  machine  of  commerce,  and 
make  a  flourishing  state,  have  been  hitherto  little  understood. 
Your  moralists  and  divines  have  for  so  many  ages  been  corrupting 
the  genuine  sense  of  mankind,  and  filling  their  heads  with  such 
absurd  principles,  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  few  men  to  contem- 
plate real  life  with  an  unprejudiced  eye.  And  fewer  still  have 
sufficient  parts  and  sagacity  to  pursue  a  long  train  of  conse- 
cjuences,  relations,  and  dependences,  which  must  be  done  in  order 
to  form  a  just  and  entire  notion  of  the  public  weal.  But,  as  I 
said  before,  our  sect  hath  produced  men  capable  of  these  dis- 
coveries, who  have  displayed  them  in  full  light,  and  made  them 
public  for  the  benefit  of  their  country. 


( From  A IcipJiro)!. ) 


THE  DELUSIONS  OF  SENSE 

Body  is  opposite  to  spirit  or  mind.  We  have  a  notion  of  spirit 
from  thought  and  action.  We  have  a  notion  of  body  from  resist- 
ance. So  far  forth  as  there  is  real  power,  there  is  spirit.  So 
far  forth  as  there  is  resistance,  there  is  inability  or  want  of  power  ; 
that  is,  there  is  a  negation  of  spirit.  We  are  embodied,  that  is, 
we  are  clogged  by  weight,  and  hindered  by  resistance.  But  in 
respect  of  a  perfect  spirit,  there  is  nothing  hard  or  impenetrable  ; 
there  is  no  resistance  to  the  deity  ;  nor  hath  he  any  body  ;  nor  is 
tlie  supreme  being  united   to   the  world,  as   the  soul  of  an  animal 


BISHOP  BERKELEY  35 

is  to  its  body,  which  necessarily  implicth  defect,  both  as  an  in- 
strument and  as  a  constant  weight  and  impediment. 

Thus  much  it  consists  with  piety  to  say,  that  a  divine  agent 
doth  by  his  virtue  permeate  and  govern  the  elementary  fire  or 
light  which  serves  as  animal  spirit  to  enliven  and  actuate  the 
whole  mass,  and  all  the  members  of  this  visible  world.  Nor  is 
this  doctrine  less  philosophical  than  pious.  We  see  all  nature 
alive  or  in  motion.  We  see  water  turned  into  air,  and  air  rarificd 
and  made  elastic  by  the  attraction  of  another  medium,  more  pure 
indeed,  more  subtile  and  more  volatile  than  air.  But  still,  as  this 
is  a  moveable,  extended,  and  consequently  a  corporeal  being,  it 
cannot  be  itself  the  principle  of  motion,  but  leads  us  naturally 
and  necessarily  to  an  incorporeal  spirit  or  agent.  We  are  conscious 
that  a  spirit  can  begin,  alter,  or  determinate  motion,  but  nothing 
of  this  appears  in  body.  Nay,  the  contrary  is  evident,  both  to 
experiment  and  reflection. 

Natural  phenomena  are  only  natural  appearances.  They  are, 
therefore,  such  as  we  see  and  perceive  them.  Their  real  and 
objective  natures  are,  therefore,  the  same  ;  passive  without  any- 
thing active,  fluent  and  changing  without  anything  pemianent  in 
them.  However,  as  these  make  the  first  impressions,  and  the 
mind  takes  her  first  flight  and  spring,  as  it  were,  by  resting  her 
foot  on  these  objects,  they  are  not  only  first  considered  by  all 
men,  but  most  considered  by  most  men.  They  and  the  phantoms 
that  result  from  those  appearances,  the  children  of  imagination 
grafted  upon  sense,  such  for  example  as  pure  space,  are  thought 
by  many  the  ver^'  first  in  existence  and  stability,  and  to  embrace 
and  comprehend  all  other  beings. 

Now  although  such  phantoms  as  corporeal  forces,  absolute 
motions  and  real  spaces,  do  pass  in  physics  for  causes  and 
principles,  yet  are  they  in  truth  but  hypotheses,  nor  can  they  be 
the  objects  of  real  science.  They  pass  nevertheless  in  physics 
conversant  about  things  of  sense,  and  confined  to  experiments 
and  mechanics.  But  when  we  enter  the  province  of  the  pJdlo- 
sopJiia  prima,  we  discover  another  order  of  beings,  mind  and  its 
acts,  permanent  being,  not  dependent  on  corporeal  things,  nor 
resulting,  nor  connected,  nor  contained  ;  but  containing,  connect- 
ing, enlivening  the  whole  frame  ;  and  imparting-  those  motions, 
forms,  cjualities,  and  that  order  and  symmetry  to  all  those  transient 
phenomena  which  we  term  the  course  of  nature. 

It  is  with   our  faculties  as  with  our  affections,  what  first  seizes 


36  ENGLISH  PROSE 


holds  fast.  It  is  a  vulgar  theme  that  man  is  a  compound  of 
contrarieties,  which  breed  a  restless  struggle  in  his  nature  between 
flesh  and  spirit,  the  beast  and  the  angel,  earth  and  heaven,  ever 
weighed  down  and  ever  bearing  up.  During  which  conflict  the 
character  fluctuates  ;  when  either  side  prevails,  it  is  then  fixed  for 
vice  or  virtue.  And  life  from  different  principles  takes  a  different 
issue.  It  is  the  same  in  regard  to  our  faculties.  Sense  at  first 
besets  and  overbears  the  mind.  The  sensible  appearances  are 
all  in  all  ;  our  reasonings  are  employed  about  them  ;  our  desires 
terminate  in  them  ;  we  look  no  farther  for  realities  or  causes,  till 
intellect  begins  to  dawn,  and  cast  a  ray  on  this  shadowy  scene. 
We  then  perceive  the  true  principle  of  unity,  identity  and  exist- 
ence. Those  things  that  before  seemed  to  constitute  the  whole 
of  being,  upon  taking  an  intellectual  view  of  things,  prove  to  be 

but  fleeting  phantoms. 

(From  Siris.) 


THE   PEBBLE  ARGUMENT  ANSWERED   BY 
ANTICIPATION 

Before  we  proceed  any  further,  it  is  necessary  to  spend  some 
time  in  answering  objections  which  may  probably  l^e  made  against 
the  principles  hitherto  laid  down.  In  doing  of  which  if  I  seem  too 
prolix  to  those  of  ciuick  apprehensions,  I  hope  it  may  be  pardoned, 
since  all  men  do  not  equally  apprehend  things  of  this  nature  ; 
and  I  am  willing  to  be  understood  of  every  one.  First,  then,  it 
will  be  objected  that  by  the  foregoing  principles,  all  that  is  real 
and  substantial  in  nature  is  banished  out  of  the  world ;  and 
instead  thereof  a  chimerical  scheme  of  ideas  takes  place.  All 
things  that  exist,  exist  only  in  the  mind,  that  is,  they  are  purely 
notional.  What  therefore  becomes  of  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  ? 
What  must  we  think  of  houses,  rivers,  mountains,  trees,  stones  ; 
nay,  even  of  our  own  bodies  .?  Are  all  these  but  so  many  chimeras 
and  illusions  on  the  fancy  ?  To  all  which,  and  whatever  else  of 
the  same  sort  may  be  objected  I  answer,  that  by  the  principles 
promised,  we  are  not  deprived  of  any  one  thing  in  nature. 
Whatever  we  see,  feel,  hear,  or  in  any  wise  conceive  or  under- 
stand, remains  as  secure  as  ever,  and  is  as  real  as  ever.     There  is 


BISHOP  BEKKELE  V  37 

a  rerum  natura^  and  the  distinction  between  realities  and  chimeras 
retains  its  full  force.  This  is  evident  from  sections  29,  30,  and 
2)1^  where  we  have  shown  what  is  meant  by  real  things  in  oppo- 
sition to  chimeras  or  ideas  of  our  own  framing  ;  but  then  they  both 
equally  exist  in  the  mind,  and  in  that  sense  are  like  ideas. 

I  do  not  argue  against  the  existence  of  any  one  thing  that  we 
can  apprehend,  either  by  sense  or  reflection.  That  the  things  I 
see  with  mine  eyes  and  touch  with  my  hands  do  exist,  I  make 
not  the  least  question.  The  only  thing'  whose  existence  we  deny, 
is  that  which  the  philosophers  call  matter  or  corporeal  substance. 
And  in  doing  of  this,  there  is  no  damage  done  to  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, who,  I  daresay,  will  never  miss  it.  The  atheist  indeed  will 
want  the  colour  of  an  empty  name  to  support  his  impiety  ;  and 
the  philosophers  may  possibly  find  they  have  lost  a  great  handle 
for  trifling  and  disputation. 

If  any  man  thinks  this  detracts  from  the  existence  or  reality 
of  things,  he  is  very  far  from  understanding  what  hath  been 
promised  in  the  plainest  temis  I  could  think  of  Take  here  an 
abstract  of  what  has  been  said.  There  are  spiritual  substances, 
minds,  or  human  souls  which  will  or  excite  ideas  in  themselves 
at  pleasure  ;  but  these  are  faint,  weak,  and  unsteady  in  respect  of 
others  they  perceive  by  sense,  which  being  impressed  upon  them 
according  to  certain  rules  or  laws  of  nature,  speak  themselves  the 
effect  of  a  mind  more  powerful  and  wise  than  human  spirits. 
These  latter  are  said  to  have  more  reality  in  them  than  the 
former  ;  by  which  is  meant  that  they  are  more  affecting,  orderly, 
and  distinct,  and  that  they  are  not  fictions  of  the  mind  perceiving 
them.  And  in  this  sense,  the  sun  that  I  see  by  day  is  the  real 
sun,  and  that  which  I  imagine  by  night  is  the  idea  of  the  former. 
In  the  sense  here  given  of  reality,  it  is  evident  that  every  vegetable, 
star,  mineral,  and  in  general  each  part  of  the  mundane  system, 
is  as  much  a  real  being  by  our  principles  as  any  other.  Whether 
others  mean  anything  by  the  term  really  different  from  what  I  do, 
I  entreat  them  to  look  into  their  own  thoughts  and  see. 

It  will  be  urged  that  thus  much  at  least  is  true,  to  wit,  that 
we  take  away  all  corporeal  substances.  To  this  my  answer  is, 
that  if  the  word  substance  be  taken  in  the  vulgar  sense,  for  a 
combination  of  sensible  qualities,  such  as  extension,  solidity, 
weight,  and  the  like  ;  this  we  cannot  be  accused  of  taking  away. 
But  if  it  be  taken  in  a  philosophic  sense,  for  the  support  of  acci- 
dents or  qualities  without  the  mind,  then  indeed   I  acknowledge 


38  ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  we  take  it  away,  if  one  may  be  said  to  take  that  away  which 
never  had  any  existence,  not  even  in  the  imagination. 

But  say  you,  it  sounds  very  harsh  to  say  we  eat  and  drink 
ideas,  and  are  clothed  with  ideas.  I  acknowledge  it  does  so,  the 
word  idea  not  being  used  in  common  discourse  to  signify  the 
several  combinations  of  sensible  equalities,  which  are  called  things  ; 
and  it  is  certain  that  any  expression  which  varies  from  the  familiar 
use  of  language  will  seem  harsh  and  ridiculous.  But  this  doth 
not  concern  the  truth  of  the  proposition,  which  in  other  words  is 
no  more  than  to  say,  we  are  fed  and  clothed  with  those  things 
which  we  perceive  immediately  by  our  senses.  The  hardness  or 
softness,  the  colour,  taste,  wannth,  figure,  and  such  like  qualities, 
which,  combined  together,  constitute  the  several  sorts  of  victuals 
and  apparel,  have  been  shown  to  exist  only  in  the  mind  that 
perceives  them  ;  and  this  is  all  that  is  meant  by  calling  them  ideas  ; 
which  word,  if  it  was  as  ordinarily  used  as  "thing,"  would  sound 
no  harsher  or  more  ridiculous  than  it.  I  am  not  for  disputing 
about  the  propriety,  but  the  truth  of  the  expression.  If  therefore 
you  agree  with  me  that  we  eat  and  drink,  and  are  clad  with  the 
immediate  objects  of  sense  which  cannot  exist  unperceived  or 
without  the  mind  ;  I  shall  readily  grant  it  is  more  proper  or  con- 
formable to  custom  that  they  should  be  called  things  rather  than 
ideas. 

If  it  be  demanded  why  I  make  use  of  the  word  idea,  and  do 
not  rather,  in  compliance  with  custom,  call  them  things,  I  answer, 
I  do  it  for  two  reasons  :  First,  because  the  term  "  thing,"  in  con- 
tradistinction to  "  idea,"  is  generally  supposed  to  denote  some- 
what existing  without  the  mind  :  secondly,  because  "thing"  hath 
a  more  comprehensive  signification  than  "  idea,"  including  spirits 
or  thinking  things  as  well  as  ideas.  Since,  therefore,  the  objects 
of  sense  exist  only  in  the  mind,  and  are  withal  thoughtless  and 
inactive,  I  chose  to  mark  them  by  the  word  "  idea,"  which  implies 
those  properties. 

But  say  what  we  can,  some  one  perhaps  may  be  apt  to  reply, 
he  will  still  believe  his  senses,  and  never  suffer  any  arguments, 
how  plausible  soever,  to  prevail  over  the  certainty  of  them.  Be 
it  so,  assert  the  evidence  of  sense  as  high  as  you  please,  we  are 
willing  to  do  the  same.  That  what  I  see,  hear,  and  feel  doth 
exist,  that  is  to  say,  is  perceived  by  me,  I  no  more  doubt  than  I 
do  of  my  own  being.  But  I  do  not  see  how  the  testimony  of 
sense  can  be  alleged  as  a  proof  for  the  existence  of  any  thing 


BISHOP  BERKELE  Y  39 

which  is  not  perceived  by  sense.  We  are  not  for  having  any  man 
turn  sceptic,  and  disbeheve  his  senses  ;  on  the  contrary,  we  give 
them  all  the  stress  and  assurance  imaginable  ;  nor  are  there  any 
principles  more  opposite  to  scepticism  than  those  we  have  laid 
down,  as  shall  be  hereafter  clearly  shown. 

(From  Principles  0/  Human  Knoio ledge.) 


WILLIAM    LAW 


[William  Law  (1686-1761)  was  born  in  1686  at  King's  Cliff  in  North- 
amptonshire, where  his  father  was  a  grocer.  He  entered  as  a  sizar  at 
Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  in  1705,  took  his  B.  A.  degree  and  was  elected 
Fellow  of  Ennnanuel  in  1708,  and  received  holy  orders  in  171 1.  For  some  years 
he  resided  at  Cambridge,  taking  pupils  ;  but  in  1714  he  had  to  resign  his  Fellow- 
ship because  he  could  not  conscientiously  take  the  oaths  of  allegiance  and 
abjuration  which  were  imposed  on  the  accession  of  George  I.  For  some 
years  it  is  not  easy  to  trace  the  course  of  his  life,  but  some  time  before  1727 
he  became  an  inmate  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Gibbon  at  Putney,  the  grandfather 
of  the  historian,  as  tutor  to  his  son,  whom  he  accompanied  to  Emmanuel  College, 
Cambridge.  His  pupil  left  the  university  without  a  degree,  and  Law  returned  to 
Mr.  Gibbon's  house,  his  whole  stay  there  lasting  more  than  twelve  years.  On 
the  death  of  Mr.  Gibbon  the  Putney  establishment  was  broken  up,  and  Law 
returned  to  his  native  county,  and  settled  first  at  Thrapston,  and  then  in  a 
house  of  his  own  at  King's  Cliff.  Two  pious  ladies.  Miss  Hester  Gibbon, 
a  sister  of  his  pupil,  and  Mrs.  Hutchison,  widow  of  an  M.  P. ,  joined  him  for 
the  sake  of  his  spiritual  direction  ;  and  the  "  Hall  Yard  "  (the  name  of  Law's 
residence)  became  the  centre  of  an  establishment  not  unlike  that  at  Little 
Gidding  under  Nicolas  Ferrar.  Almshouses  and  schools  were  built  and 
endowed,  and  Law's  outer  life  consisted  mainly  in  attending  to  these,  and  in 
ministering  to  the  poor  of  the  parish.  He  attended  every  service  at  the 
Parish  Church,  and  observed  regularly  all  the  canonical  hours  of  devotion. 
He  strongly  disapproved  of  clerical  marriages,  and  remained  a  bachelor 
until  his  death  in  the  spring  of  1761.  His  whole  life  was  an  endeavour  to 
follow  out  literally  the  precepts  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

A  complete  list  of  Law's  works,  which  fill  nine  8vo  volumes,  will  be  found 
in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biogniphy.'\ 

As  a  writer  of  English  prose,  William  Law  holds  a  very  high  rank  ; 
but  the  reasons  why  his  writings,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
have  been,  until  quite  recent  years,  so  little  known  and  appreciated 
are  not  far  to  seek.  In  his  various  phases  of  mind  he  was  quite 
out  of  sympathy  with  the  popular  current  of  thought  all  through 
the  Georgian  era.  He  began  as  a  marked  high  churchman  and 
nonjuror,  and,  indeed,  never  lost  his  sympathies  in  that  direction 
to    the    end  of  his   life,    though  they  were  certainly  crossed  by 


42  ENGLISH  PROSE 


another  influence  in  his  later  years.  There  were  of  course  numbers, 
especially  of  the  clergy,  who  would  agree  with  him  generally 
in  these  views.  But  few  would  take  quite  the  same  line  that  he 
did.  That  odd  mixture  of  the  "methodist"  (in  the  i8th  century 
sense  of  the  tenii)  and  the  high  churchman,  though  intelligible 
enough  now,  was  a  strange  anomaly  then.  Even  his  strictly 
practical  treatises,  the  Christia7i  Perfection  and  the  Serious  Call, 
though  they  produced,  directly  or  indirectly,  an  immense  effect, 
did  not  quite  harmonise  with  any  of  the  phases  of  religious 
thought  that  were  then  rife.  They  savoured  too  much  of  enthusi- 
asm to  suit  the  orthodox,  and  too  much  of  legalism  to  suit  the 
evangelical.  His  later  and  (so  called)  mystic  works,  which  to 
mapy  are  now  by  far  the  most  interesting  and  suggestive  of  all 
his  writings,  appeared  to  the  plain,  matter  of  fact,  and  rather  prosaic 
age  in  which  they  were  written,  sheer  nonsense,  and  hardly  con- 
sistent with  sanity.  Of  course  there  were  exceptions,  and  the  few 
who  did  admire  Law,  admired  him  enthusiastically;  but  mysticism, 
and  especially  mysticism  tinctured  with  Behmenism,  was  quite 
alien  from  the  tone  of  that  sceculuin  ratiojialisticum,  and 
still  more  so  from  the  popular  evangelicalism  which  followed. 
And  Law  was  not  less  out  of  sympathy  with  the  philosophy  than 
with  the  religion  of  his  age.  He  set  himself  steadily  against  the 
dominant  school  of  Locke,  which  he  thought  responsible  for  the 
unspiritual  tone  of  the  period.  A  writer  who  is  thus  antagonistic 
in  every  way  to  the  spirit  of  his  time  can  scarcely  expect  to  be 
popular  ;  and  probably  Law  neither  expected  nor  desired  to  be  so. 
It  is  wonderful,  however,  to  observe  how,  more  than  one  hundred 
and  thirty  years  after  his  death,  the  interest  in  him  seems  to  be 
awakened.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  present  work,  such  an 
awakening  must  be  looked  upon  as  a  hopeful  sign.  Masters  of 
English  Prose  are  not  so  plentiful  that  we  can  afford  to  allow  one 
who  stands  in  the  very  first  rank  to  slip  into  oblivion.  And  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  many  who  combine  as  Law  does  so  much 
vigour  and  raciness  of  thought  and  diction,  so  pure  and  luminous 
a  style,  such  brilliant,  if  somewhat  grim,  humour,  such  pungent 
sarcasm,  such  powers  of  reasoning.  There  is,  indeed,  a  stern 
severity  about  the  writer  which  is  very  characteristic  of  the  man  ; 
but  it  is  eci'ually  characteristic  that  amid  this  sternness  he  some- 
times breaks  out  into  passages  of  sweet  tenderness,  which  are  all 
the  more  touching  from  their  contrast  with  the  ruggedness  of  their 
surroundings.      Like  many  other  men  and  writers,    Law  became 


WILLIAM  LA  IV  43 


softened  and  mellowed  with  age,  as  any  one  may  see  who  com- 
pares, say,  The  Spirit  of  Love  with  the  Letters  to  the  Bishop  of 
Bangor. 

It  is  difficult  to  do  full  justice  to  Law  by  giving  extracts  from 
his  writings  ;  because  one  of  his  chief  merits  lies  in  the  con- 
scientiousness of  his  reasoning.  He  never  loses  sight  of  his 
subject,  and,  granting  his  premisses,  it  is  impossible  to  put  a 
pin's  point  between  his  deductions  from  them.  He  is,  moreover, 
a  singularly  equal  writer  ;  unlike  the  good  Homer,  he  never  nods, 
never  descends  below  himself.  One  might  take  passages  almost 
at  random,  and  yet  convey  as  favourable  an  impression  of  him,  as 
by  carefully  selecting  specimens  which  shew  him  at  his  best.  The 
following  selections,  therefore,  have  been  made,  not  on  the  principle 
of  picking  out  the  plums,  but  simply  as  illustrations  of  the  various 
stages  in  the  development  of  his  very  remarkable  mind. 

J,  H.  Overton. 


CONFIRMATION 

Amongst  the  vain  contemptible  things  whereof  your  lordship 
would  create  an  abhorrence  in  the  laity  are  the  trifles  and  niceties 
of  authoritative  benedictions,  absolutions,  excommunications. 
Again,  you  say,  that  to  expect  the  grace  of  God  from  any  hands 
but  His  own  is  to  affront  Him.  And,  that  all  depends  upon  God 
and  ourselves  ;  that  human  benedictions,  human  absolutions, 
human  excommunications,  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  favour  of 
God. 

It  is  evident  from  these  maxims  (for  your  lordship  asserts  them 
as  such)  that  whatever  institutions  are  observed  in  any  Christian 
society,  upon  this  supposition,  that  thereby  grace  is  conferred 
through  human  hands,  or  by  the  ministry  of  the  clergy,  such 
institutions  ought  to  be  condemned,  and  are  condemned  by  your 
lordship,  as  trifling,  useless,  and  affronting  to  God. 

There  is  an  institution,  my  lord,  in  the  yet  established  Church 
of  England,  which  we  call  confimiation.  It  is  founded  upon  the 
express  words  of  Scripture,  primitive  observance,  and  the  universal 
practice  of  all  succeeding  ages  in  the  Church.  The  design  of  this 
institution  is,  that  it  should  be  a  means  of  conferring  grace,  by 
the  prayer  and  imposition  of  the  bishop's  hands,  on  those  who  have 
been  already  baptized.  But  yet,  against  all  this  authority  both 
divine  and  human,  and  the  express  order  of  our  own  Church,  your 
lordship  teaches  the  laity  that  all  human  benedictions  are  useless 
niceties,  and  that  to  expect  God's  grace  from  any  hands  but  His 
own  is  to  affront  Him. 

If  so,  my  lord,  what  shall  we  say  in  defence  of  the  Apostles  ? 
We  read  (Acts  viii.  14)  that  when  Philip  the  deacon  had  baptized 
the  Samaritans,  the  Apostles  sent  Peter  and  John  to  them,  who 
having  prayed,  and  laid  their  hands  on  them,  they  received  the 
Holy  Ghost,  who  before  was  fallen  upon  none  of  them  ;  only  they 
were  baptized  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus. 


WILLIAM  LAW  45 


My  lord,  several  things  are  here  out  of  question  :  First,  that 
something  else,  even  in  the  Apostolical  times,  was  necessary, 
besides  baptism,  in  order  to  qualify  persons  to  become  complete 
members  of  the  body,  or  partakers  of  the  grace  of  Christ.  They 
had  been  baptized,  yet  did  not  receive  the  Holy  Ghost  till  the 
Apostles'  hands  were  laid  upon  them.  Secondly,  that  God's  graces 
were  not  only  conferred  by  means  of  human  hands,  but  of  some 
particular  hands,  and  not  others.  Thirdly,  that  this  office  was  so 
strictly  appropriated  to  the  Apostles,  or  chief  governors  of  the 
Church,  that  it  could  not  be  performed  by  inspired  men,  though 
empowered  to  work  miracles,  who  were  of  an  inferior  order,  as 
Philip  the  deacon.  Fourthly,  that  the  power  of  the  Apostles  for 
the  performance  of  this  ordinance  was  entirely  owing  to  their 
superior  degree  in  the  ministry,  and  not  to  any  extraordinary  gifts 
they  were  endowed  with,  for  then  Philip  might  have  performed  it 
who  was  not  wanting  in  those  gifts,  himself  being  an  evangelist 
and  worker  of  miracles  ;  which  is  a  demonstration  that  his  in- 
capacity arose  from  his  inferior  degree  in  the  ministry. 

And  now,  my  lord,  are  all  human  benedictions  niceties  and 
trifles  ?  Are  the  means  of  God's  grace  in  His  own  hands  alone  ? 
Is  it  wicked,  and  affronting  to  God,  to  suppose  the  contrary  ? 
How  then  come  Peter  and  John  to  confer  the  Holy  Ghost  by  the 
imposition  of  their  hands  ?  How  comes  it,  that  they  appropriate 
this  office  to  themselves  ?  Is  the  dispensation  of  God's  grace  in 
His  own  hands  alone  ?  And  yet  can  it  be  dispensed  to  us  by  the 
ministry  of  some  persons,  and  not  by  that  of  others  .'' 

Were  the  Apostles  so  wicked  as  to  distinguish  themselves  by 
a  pretence  to  vain  powers  which  God  had  reserved  to  Himself, 
and  which  your  lordship  supposes,  from  the  title  of  your  preser- 
vative, that  it  is  inconsistent  with  common  sense  to  imagine  that 
God  could  or  would  have  communicated  to  men  ? 

Had  any  of  your  lordship's  well-instructed  laity  lived  in  the 
Apostles'  days,  with  what  indignation  must  they  have  rejected 
this  senseless  chimerical  claim  of  the  Apostles  ?  They  must  have 
said.  Why  do  you,  Peter  and  John,  pretend  to  this  blasphemous 
power  ?  Whilst  we  believe  the  gospel,  we  cannot  expect  the  grace 
of  God  from  any  hands  but  His  own.  You  give  us  the  Holy 
Ghost  !  You  confer  the  grace  of  God  !  Is  it  not  impious  to 
think  that  He  should  make  our  improvement  in  grace  depend 
upon  your  ministry,  or  hang  our  salvation  on  any  particular  order 
of  clergymen  ?     We  know  that  God  is  just  and  good  and  true, 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  that  all  depends  upon  Him  and  ourselves,  and  that  human 
benedictions  are  tinfles.  Therefore,  whether  you  Peter,  or  you 
Philip,  or  both  or  neither  of  you  lay  your  hands  upon  us,  we  are 
neither  better  nor  worse  ;  but  just  in  the  same  state  of  grace  as 
we  wci^e  Ijefore. 

This  representation  has  not  one  syllable  in  it  but  what  is 
founded  on  your  lordship's  doctrine,  and  perfectly  agreeable  to  it. 

The  late  most  pious  and  learned  Bishop  Beveridge  has  these 
remarkable  words  upon  Confirmation  :  "  How  any  bishops  in  our 
age  dare  neglect  so  considerable  a  part  of  their  office,  I  know 
not  ;  but  fear  they  will  have  no  good  account  to  give  of  it,  when 
they  come  to  stand  before  God's  triljunal." 

But  we  may  justly,  and  therefore  1  hope  with  decency,  ask 
your  lordship,  how  you  dare  perform  this  part  of  your  office  ? 
For  you  have  condemned  it  as  trifling  and  wicked  ;  as  trifling, 
because  it  is  a  human  benediction  ;  as  wicked,  because  it  supposes 
grace  conferred  by  the  hands  of  the  bishop.  If  therefore  any 
baptized  persons  should  come  to  your  lordship  for  confirmation, 
if  you  are  sincere  in  what  you  have  delivered,  your  lordship  ought, 
I  humbly  conceive,  to  make  them  this  declaration  : — 

"  My  friends,  for  the  sake  of  decency  and  order,  I  have  taken 
upon  me  the  episcopal  character,  and,  according  to  custom, 
which  has  long  prevailed  against  common  sense,  am  now  to  lay 
my  hands  upon  you.  But  I  beseech  you,  as  you  have  any  regard 
to  the  truth  of  the  Gospel,  or  to  the  honour  of  God,  not  to  imagine 
there  is  anything  in  this  action,  more  than  a  useless  empty 
ceremony  ;  for  if  you  expect  to  have  any  spiritual  advantage  from 
human  benedictions,  or  to  receive  grace  from  the  imposition  of  a 
bishop's  hands,  you  affront  God,  and,  in  effect,  renounce  Christi- 

'^"''•y-  (From  Second  Letter  to  BisJiop  of  Bangor.) 


CHARACTER  OF  OURANIUS 

OURANIUS  is  a  holy  priest,  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  gospel,  watching, 
labouring,  and  praying  for  a  poor  country  village.  Ever>'  soul  in 
it  is  as  dear  to  him  as  himself;  and  he  loves  them  all  as  he  loves 
himself,  because  he  prays  for  them  all  as  often  as  he  prays  for 
himself 


IVILLIAni  LAW  47 


If  his  whole  hfe  is  one  continual  exercise  of  great  zeal  and 
labour,  hardly  ever  satisfied  with  any  degrees  of  care  and  watch- 
fulness, it  is  because  he  has  learned  the  great  value  of  souls,  by 
so  often  appearing  before  God,  as  an  intercessor  for  them. 

He  never  thinks  he  can  love,  or  do  enough  for  his  flock  ; 
because  he  never  considers  them  in  any  other  view  than  as  so 
many  persons  that,  by  receiving  the  gifts  and  graces  of  God,  are 
to  become  his  hope,  his  joy,  and  his  crown  of  rejoicing. 

He  goes  about  his  parish,  and  visits  everybody  in  it  ;  but  visits 
in  the  same  spirit  of  piety  that  he  preaches  to  them  ;  he  visits 
them,  to  encourage  their  virtues,  to  assist  them  with  his  ad\'icc 
and  counsel,  to  discover  their  manner  of  life,  and  to  know  the  state 
of  their  souls,  that  he  may  intercede  with  God  for  them  according 
to  their  particular  necessities. 

When  Ouranius  first  entered  into  holy  orders,  he  had  a 
haughtiness  in  his  temper,  a  great  contempt  and  disregard  for  all 
foolish  and  unreasonable  people  ;  but  he  has  prayed  away  this 
spirit,  and  has  now  the  greatest  tenderness  for  the  most  obstinate 
sinners  ;  because  he  is  always  hoping  that  God  will  sooner  or 
later  hear  those  prayers  that  he  makes  for  their  repentance. 

The  rudeness,  ill-nature,  or  perverse  behaviour  of  any  of  his 
flock  used  at  first  to  betray  him  into  impatience  ;  but  now  it  raises 
no  other  passion  in  him,  than  a  desire  of  being  upon  his  knees  in 
prayer  to  God  for  them. 

Thus  have  his  prayers  for  others  altered  and  amended  the  state 
of  his  own  heart. 

It  would  strangely  delight  you  to  see  with  what  spirit  he 
converses,  with  what  tenderness  he  reproves,  with  what  affection 
he  exhorts,  and  with  what  \igour  he  preaches  ;  and  it  is  all  owing 
to  this,  because  he  reproves,  exhorts,  and  preaches  to  those,  for 
whom  he  first  prays  to  God. 

This  devotion  softens  his  heart,  enlightens  his  mind,  sweetens 
his  temper,  and  makes  everything  that  comes  from  him  instructive, 
amiable,  and  affecting. 

At  his  first  coming  to  his  little  village,  it  was  as  disagreeable 
to  him  as  a  prison,  and  every  day  seemed  too  tedious  to  be 
endured  in  so  retired  a  place.  He  thought  his  parish  was  too 
full  of  poor  and  mean  people,  that  were  none  of  them  fit  for  the 
conversation  of  a  gentleman. 

This  put  him  upon  a  close  application  to  his  studies.  He  kept 
much  at  home,  writ  notes  upon  Homer  and   Plautus,  and  some- 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


times  thought  it  hard  to  be  called  to  pray  by  any  poor  body,  when 
he  was  just  in  the  midst  of  one  of  Homer's  battles. 

This  was  his  polite,  or  I  may  rather  say,  poor,  ignorant  turn 
of  mind,  before  devotion  had  got  the  government  of  his  heart. 

But  now  his  days  are  so  far  from  being  tedious,  or  his  parish 
too  great  a  retirement,  that  he  now  only  wants  more  time  to  do 
that  variety  of  good,  which  his  soul  thirsts  after.  The  solitude 
of  his  little  parish  is  become  matter  of  great  comfort  to  him, 
because  he  hopes  that  God  has  placed  him  and  his  flock  there, 
to  make  it  their  way  to  heaven. 

He  can  now  not  only  converse  with,  but  gladly  attend  and 
wait  upon  the  poorest  kind  of  people.  He  is  now  daily  watching 
over  the  weak  and  infinn,  humbling  himself  to  perverse,  rude, 
ignorant  people,  wherever  he  can  find  them  ;  and  is  so  far  from 
desiring  to  be  considered  as  a  gentleman,  that  he  desires  to  be 
used  as  the  servant  of  all  ;  and  in  the  spirit  of  his  Lord  and 
Master  girds  himself,  and  is  glad  to  kneel  down  and  wash  any  of 
their  feet. 

He  now  thinks  the  poorest  creature  in  his  parish  good  enough, 
and  great  enough,  to  deserve  the  humblest  attendances,  the 
kindest  friendships,  the  tenderest  offices  he  can  possibly  show 
them. 

He  is  now  so  far  from  wanting  agreeable  company,  that  he 
thinks  there  is  no  better  conversation  in  the  world,  than  to  be 
talking  with  poor  and  mean  people  about  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

All  these  noble  thoughts  and  divine  sentiments  are  the  effects 
of  his  great  devotion  ;  he  presents  every  one  so  often  before  God, 
in  his  prayers,  that  he  never  thinks  he  can  esteem,  reverence,  or 
serve  those  enough,  for  whom  he  implores  so  many  mercies  from 
God. 

Ouranius  is  mightily  affected  with  this  passage  of  Holy 
Scripture,  "  The  effectual,  fervent  prayer  of  a  righteous  man 
availeth  much." 

This  makes  him  practise  all  the  arts  of  holy  living,  and  aspire 
after  every  instance  of  piety  and  righteousness,  that  his  prayers 
for  his  flock  may  have  their  full  force,  and  avail  much  with  God. 

For  this  reason  he  has  sold  a  small  estate  that  he  had,  and  has 
erected  a  charitable  retirement  for  ancient  poor  people,  to  five  in 
prayer  and  piety,  that  his  prayers  being  assisted  by  such  good 
works,  may  pierce  tlie  clouds,  and  bring  down  Ijlessings  upon 
those  souls  committed  to  his  care. 


WILLIAM  LA  IV  49 


Ouranius  reads  how  God  himself  said  unto  Abimelech  concern- 
ing Abraham,  He  is  a  prophet  ;  he  shall  pray  for  thee  and  thou 
shalt  live.  And  again,  how  He  said  of  Job,  And  my  servant  Job 
shall  pray  for  you,  for  him  will  I  accept. 

From  these  passages  Ouranius  justly  concludes,  that  the 
prayers  of  men  eminent  for  holiness  of  life  have  an  extraordinary 
power  with  God  ;  that  He  grants  to  other  people  such  pardons, 
reliefs,  and  blessings,  through  their  prayers,  as  would  not  be 
granted  to  men  of  less  piety  and  perfection.  This  makes  Ouranius 
exceeding  studious  of  Christian  perfection,  searching  after  every 
grace  and  holy  temper,  purifying  his  heart  all  manner  of  ways, 
fearful  of  every  error  and  defect  in  his  life,  lest  his  prayers  for  his 
flock  should  be  less  availing  with  God,  through  his  own  defects 
in  holiness. 

This  makes  him  careful  of  every  temper  of  his  heart,  give  alms 
of  all  he  hath,  watch  and  fast  and  mortify  and  live  according  to 
the  strictest  rules  of  temperance,  meekness,  and  humility,  that  he 
may  be  in  some  degree  like  an  Abraham  or  a  Job  in  his  parish, 
and  make  such  prayers  for  them  as  God  will  hear  and  accept. 

These  are  the  happy  effects  which  a  devout  intercession  hath 
produced  in  the  life  of  Ouranius.  (From  Serious  Call.) 


THE   FALL  OF  ADAM 

Ag.mn,  is  it  not  the  plain  letter  of  Scripture  that  Adam  died  the 
day  that  he  did  eat  of  the  earthly  tree  ?  Have  we  not  the  most 
solemn  asseveration  of  God  for  the  truth  of  this  ?  Was  not  the 
change  which  Adam  found  in  himself  a  demonstration  of  the  truth 
of  this  fact .''  Instead  of  the  image  and  likeness  of  God  in  which 
he  was  created,  the  beauty  of  paradise,  he  was  stript  of  all  his 
glory,  confounded  at  the  shameful  deformity  of  his  own  bod}', 
afraid  of  being  seen,  and  unable  to  see  himself  uncovered  ; 
delivered  up  a  slave  to  the  rage  of  all  the  stars  and  elements  of 
this  world,  not  knowing  which  way  to  look,  or  what  to  do  in  a 
world  where  he  was  dead  to  all  he  formerly  felt,  and  alive  only  to 
a  new  and  dreadful  feeling  of  heat  and  cold,  shame  and  fear,  and 
horrible  remorse  of  mind  at  his  sad  entrance  in  a  world  whence 
paradise  and  God  and  his  own  glory  were  departed.  Death 
enough  surely  ! 

VOL.  IV  E 


so  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Death  in  its  highest  reaUty,  much  greater  in  its  change,  than 
when  an  animal  of  earthly  flesh  and  blood  is  only  changed  into  a 
cold  lifeless  carcase. 

A  death  that  in  all  nature  has  none  like  it,  none  equal  to  it, 
none  of  the  same  nature  with  it,  but  that  which  the  angels  died, 
when  from  angels  of  God  they  became  living  devils,  serpentine 
hideous  forms,  and  slaves  to  darkness.  Say  that  the  angels  lost 
no  life,  that  they  did  not  die  a  real  death,  because  they  are  yet 
alive  in  the  horrors  of  darkness  ;  and  then  you  may  say,  with  the 
same  truth,  that  Adam  did  not  die  when  he  lost  God,  and  paradise, 
and  the  first  glory  of  his  creation,  because  he  afterwards  lived 
and  breathed  in  a  world  which  was  outwardly,  in  all  its  parts,  full 
of  the  same  curse  that  was  within  himself,  but  further,  not  only 
the  plain  letter  of  the  text,  and  the  change  of  state  which  Adam 
found  in  himself,  demonstrated  a  real  death  to  his  fonner  state  ; 
but  the  whole  tenor  of  Scripture  absolutely  requires  it ;  all  the 
system  of  our  redemption  pioceeds  upon  it.  For  tell  me,  I  pray, 
what  need  of  a  redemption,  if  Adam  had  not  lost  his  first  state  of 
life  t  What  need  of  the  deity  to  enter  again  into  the  human 
nature,  not  only  as  acting,  but  taking  a  birth  in  it,  and  from  it .'' 
What  need  of  all  this  mysterious  method,  to  bring  the  life  from 
above  again  into  man,  if  the  life  from  above  had  not  been  lost  ? 
Say  that  Adam  did  not  die,  and  then  tell  me  what  sense  or  reason 
there  is  in  saying  that  the  Son  of  God  became  man,  and  died  on 
the  cross  to  restore  to  him  the  life  that  he  had  lost .''  It  is  true 
indeed  that  Adam,  in  his  death  to  the  divine  life,  was  left  in  the 
possession  of  an  earthly  life.  And  the  reason  is  plain  why  he 
was  so,  for  his  great  sin  consisted  in  his  desire  and  longing  to 
enter  into  the  life  of  this  world,  to  know  its  good  and  evil  as  the 
animals  of  this  world  do  ;  it  was  his  choosing  to  have  a  life  of 
this  world  after  this  new  manner,  and  his  entering  upon  the  means 
of  attaining  it,  that  was  his  death  to  the  divine  life.  And  therefore 
it  is  no  wonder,  that  after  his  death  to  heaven  and  paradise  he 
found  himself  still  alive  as  an  earthly  animal.  For  the  desire  of 
this  earthly  life  was  his  great  sin,  and  the  possession  of  this 
earthly  life  was  the  proper  punishment  and  misery  that  belonged 
to  his  sin  ;  and  therefore  it  is  no  wonder,  that  that  life  which  was 
the  proper  punishment,  and  real  discovery  of  the  fruits  of  his  sin, 
should  subsist  after  his  sin  had  put  an  end  to  the  life  of  paradise 
and  God  in  him.  But  wonderful  it  is  to  a  great  degree,  that  any 
man  should  imagine  that  Adam  did  not  die  on  the  day  of  his  sin, 


WILLIAM  LA  IV  51 


because  he  had  as  good  a  Hfc  left   in  him,  as   the  beasts   of  the 
field  have. 

For  is  this  the  life,  or  is  the  death  that  such  animals  die,  the 
life  and  death  with  which  our  redemption  is  concerned  ?  Are 
not  all  the  Scriptures  full  of  a  life  and  death  of  a  much  higher 
kind  and  nature  ?  And  do  not  the  Scriptures  make  man  the 
perpetual  subject  to  whom  this  higher  life  and  death  belong  ? 
What  ground  or  reason  therefore  can  there  be  to  think  of  the 
death  of  an  animal  of  this  world,  when  we  read  of  the  death  that 
Adam  was  assuredly  to  die  the  day  of  his  sin  ?  For  does  not  all 
that  befel  him  on  the  day  of  his  sin  show  that  he  lost  a  much 
greater  life,  suffered  a  more  dreadful  change,  than  that  of  giving 
up  the  breath  of  this  world  ?  For  in  the  day  of  his  sin,  this  angel 
of  paradise,  this  lord  of  the  new  creation,  fell  from  the  throne  of 
his  glory  (like  Lucifer  from  heaven)  into  the  state  of  a  poor, 
awakened,  naked,  distressed  animal  of  gross  flesh  and  blood, 
unable  to  bear  the  odious  sight  of  that  which  his  newly  opened 
eyes  forced  him  to  see  ;  inwardly  and  outwardly  feeling  the  curse 
awakened  in  himself  and  all  the  creation,  and  reduced  to  have 
only  the  faith  of  the  devils,  to  believe  and  tremble.  Proof  enough 
surely,  that  Adam  was  dead  to  the  life  and  light  and  spirit  of 
God  ;  and  that,  with  this  death,  all  that  was  divine  and  heavenly 
in  his  soul,  his  body,  his  eyes,  his  mind  and  thoughts,  was  quite 
at  an  end.  Now  this  life  to  which  Adam  then  died,  is  that  life 
which  all  his  posterity  are  in  want  of,  and  cannot  come  out  of  that 
state  of  that  death  into  which  he  fell,  but  by  having  this  first  life 
of  heaven  born  again  in  them.  Now  is  there  any  reason  to  say, 
that  mankind,  in  their  natural  state,  are  not  dead  to  that  first  life 
in  which  Adam  was  created,  because  they  are  alive  to  this  world  ? 
Yet  this  is  as  well  as  to  say,  that  Adam  did  not  die  a  real  death, 
because  he  had  afterwards  an  earthly  life  in  him.  How  comes 
our  Lord  to  say,  that  unless  ye  eat  the  flesh,  and  drink  the  blood 
of  the  Son  of  Man,  ye  have  no  life  in  you  ?  Did  he  mean  you 
have  no  earthly  life  in  you  ?  How  comes  the  Apostle  to  say,  he 
that  hath  the  Son  of  God  hath  life,  but  he  that  hath  not  the  Son 
of  God  hath  not  life  ?  Does  he  mean  the  life  of  this  world  ? 
No.  But  both  Christ  and  His  Apostle  assert  this  great  truth,  that 
all  mankind  are  in  the  state  of  Adam's  first  death  till  they  are 
made  alive  again  by  a  birth  of  the  Son  and  Holy  Spirit  of  God 
brought  forth  in  them.  So  plain  is  it,  both  from  the  express  letter 
and  spirit  of  Scripture,  that  Adam  died  a  real  death  to  the  kingdom 


52  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  God  in  the  day  of  his  sin.  Take  away  this  death,  and  all  the 
scheme  of  our  redemption  has  no  ground  left  to  stand  upon. 

Judge  now,  Academicus,  who  leaves  the  letter  of  Scripture, 
your  learned  friends,  or  the  author  of  this  appeal  ?  They  leave 
it,  they  oppose  it,  in  that  which  is  the  very  life  of  Christianity. 

For  without  the  reality  of  a  new  birth,  founded  on  the  certainty 
of  a  real  death  on  the  fall  of  Adam,  the  Christian  scheme  is  but  a 
skeleton  of  empty  words,  a  detail  of  strange  mysteries  between 
God  and  man,  that  do  nothing,  and  have  nothing  to  do. 

(From  Second  Part  of  The  Spirit  of  Prayer?) 


THE  ATONEMENT 

Look  we  now  at  the  Scripture  account  of  the  nature  of  the 
atonement  and  satisfaction  of  Christ,  and  this  will  further  show 
us,  that  it  is  not  to  atone,  or  alter  any  cjuality  or  temper  in  the 
divine  mind,  nor  for  the  sake  of  God,  but  purely  and  solely  to 
atone,  to  quench  and  overcgme  that  death  and  wrath  and  hell, 
under  the  power  of  which  man  was  fallen. 

As  in  Adam  all  die,  so  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made  alive.  This 
is  the  whole  work,  the  whole  nature,  and  the  sole  end  of  Christ's 
sacrifice  of  Himself;  and  there  is  not  a  syllable  in  Scripture  that 
gives  you  any  other  account  of  it  :  it  all  consists,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end,  in  carrying  on  the  one  work  of  regeneration  ;  and 
therefore  the  Apostle  says,  the  first  Adam  was  made  a  living  soul, 
but  the  last  or  second  Adam  was  made  a  quickening  spirit, 
because  sent  into  the  world  by  God,  to  quicken  and  revive  that  life 
from  above,  which  we  lost  in  Adam.  And  He  is  called  our  ransom, 
our  atonement,  etc.,  for  no  other  reason  but  because  that  which 
He  did  and  suffered  in  our  fallen  nature,  was  as  truly  an  efficacious 
means  of  our  being  born  again  to  a  new  heavenly  life,  of  Him 
and  from  Him,  as  that  which  Adam  did,  was  the  true  and  natural 
cause  of  our  being  born  in  sin,  and  the  impurity  of  bestial  flesh 
and  blood. 

And  as  Adam,  by  what  he  did,  may  be  truly  said  to  have 
purchased  our  misery  and  corruption,  to  have  bought  death  for 
us,  and  to  have  sold  us  into  a  slavery  under  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil,  though  all  that  Ave  have  from  him,  or  suffer  by  him 
is  only  the  inward  working-  of  his  own  nature  and  life  within  us  ; 


WILLIAM  LAW  53 


so,  according  to  the  plain  meaning  of  the  words,  Christ  may  be 
said  to  be  our  price,  our  ransom,  and  atonement,  though  all  that 
He  does  for  us,  as  buying,  ransoming,  and  redeeming  us,  is  done 
wholely  and  solely  by  a  birth  of  His  own  nature  and  spirit  brought 
to  life  in  us. 

The  Apostle  says,  Christ  died  for  our  sins.  Thence  it  is  that 
He  is  the  great  sacrifice  for  sin,  and  its  true  atonement.  But  how 
and  why  is  He  so  ?  The  Apostle  tells  you  in  these  words,  Tlic 
sting  of  death  is  sin.  But  thanks  be  to  God,  who  giveth  us  the 
victory  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  And  therefore  Christ  is 
the  atonement  of  our  sins,  when  by  and  from  Him,  living  in  us, 
we  have  victory  over  our  sinful  nature. 

The  Scriptures  frequently  say,  Christ  gave  Himself  for  us. 
But  what  is  the  full  meaning,  effect,  and  benefit  of  His  thus  gi\ing 
Himself  for  us  ?  The  Apostle  puts  this  out  of  all  doubt,  w^hen  he 
says,  Jesus  Christ,  who  gave  Himself  for  us,  that  He  might  redeem 
us  from  all  iniquity,  and  purify  to  Himself  a  peculiar  people  ; 
that  He  might  deli\er  us  from  this  present  e\il  world,  from  the 
curse  of  the  law,  from  the  power  of  Satan,  from  the  wrath  to 
come  ;  or,  as  the  Apostle  says  in  other  words,  that  He  might  be 
made  unto  us  wisdom,  righteousness,  and  sanctification. 

The  whole  truth  therefore  of  the  matter  is  plainly  this  :  Christ 
given  for  us,  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  Christ  given  into  us. 
And  He  is  in  no  other  sense  our  full,  perfect,  and  sufficient  atone- 
nient,  than  as  His  nature  and  spirit  are  born  and  formed  in  us, 
which  so  purge  us  from  our  sins,  that  we  are  thereby  in  Him,  and 
by  Him  dwelling  in  us,  laecome  new  creatures,  having  our  conver- 
sation in  heaven. 

As  Adam  is  truly  our  defilement  and  impurity  by  his  birth  in 
us,  so  Christ  is  our  atonement  and  purification,  by  our  being  born 
again  of  Him,  and  having  thereby  quickened  and  revived  in  us 
that  first  divine  life,  which  was  extinguished  in  Adam.  And 
therefore,  as  Adam  purchased  death  for  us,  just  so  in  the  same 
manner,  in  the  same  degree,  and  in  the  same  sense,  Christ 
purchases  life  for  us.  And  each  of  them  solely  by  their  own 
inward  life  within  us. 

This  is  the  one  Scripture  account  of  the  whole  nature,  the  sole 
end,  and  full  efficacy  of  all  that  Christ  did,  and  suffered  for  us. 
It  is  all  comprehended  in  these  two  texts  of  Scripture,  (i)  That 
Christ  was  manifested  to  destroy  the  works  of  the  devil.  (2) 
That  as   in  Adam  all  die,   so  in   Christ   shall  all  be  made  ali\e. 


54  ENGLISH  PROSE 


From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  Christ's  atoning  work,  no  other 
power  is  ascribed  to  it,  nothing  else  is  intended  by  it,  as  an 
appeaser  of  wrath,  Ijut  the  destroying  of  all  that  in  man  which 
comes  from  the  devil  ;  no  other  merits,  or  value,  or  infinite  worth, 
than  that  of  its  infinite  ability,  and  sufficiency  to  quicken  again 
in  all  human  nature  that  heavenly  life  that  died  in  Adam. 

(From  The  Spirit  of  Love?) 


DIVINE   KNOWLEDGE 

Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth,  is  the  only  way  by  which 
any  man  ever  did,  or  ever  can  attain  divine  knowledge  and  divine 
goodness.  To  knock  at  any  other  door  but  this  is  but  like  asking 
life  of  that  which  is  itself  dead,  or  praying  to  him  for  bread  who 
has  nothing  but  stones  to  give. 

Now  strange  as  all  this  may  seem  to  the  labour-learned  possessor 
of  far-fetched  book-riches,  yet  it  is  saying  no  more,  nor  anything 
else,  but  that  which  Christ  said  in  these  words,  Except  ye  be 
converted,  and  become  as  little  children,  ye  cannot  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  God.  For  if  classic  Gospellers,  linguist  critics, 
Scripture-logicians,  salvation  orators,  able  dealers  in  the  grammatic 
powers  of  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Roman  phrases,  idioms,  tropes, 
figures,  etc.  etc.  can  show,  that  by  raising  themselves  high  in  these 
attainments,  they  are  the  very  men  that  are  sunk  down  from 
themselves  into  Christ's  little  children  of  the  kingdom  of  God, 
then  it  may  be  also  said,  that  he  who  is  labouring,  scheming,  and 
fighting  for  all  the  riches  he  can  get  from  both  the  Indies,  is  the 
very  man  that  has  left  all  to  follow  Christ,  the  very  man  that 
labours  not  for  the  meat  that  perishes. 

Show  me  a  man  whose  heart  has  no  desire,  or  prayer  in  it, 
but  to  love  God  with  his  whole  soul  and  spirit,  and  his  neighbour 
as  himself,  and  then  you  have  shown  me  the  man  who  knows 
Christ,  and  is  known  of  Him  ; — the  best  and  wisest  man  in  the 
world,  in  whom  the  first  paradisical  wisdom  and  goodness  are 
come  to  life.  Not  a  single  precept  in  the  Gospel  but  is  the  precept 
of  his  own  heart,  and  the  joy  of  that  new-born  heavenly  love  which 
is  the  life  and  light  of  his  soul.  In  this  man  all  that  came  from 
the  old  serpent  is  trod  under  his  feet  ;  not  a  spark  of  self,  of  pride, 
of  wrath,   of  envy,   of  covetousness   or  worldly  wisdom  can   have 


WILLIAM  LAW  55 


the  least  abode  in  him,  because  that  love,  which  fulfilleth  the 
whole  law  and  the  prophets,  that  love  which  is  God  and  Christ, 
both  in  angels  and  men,  is  the  love  that  gives  birth,  and  life,  and 
growth  to  every  thing  that  is  either  thought  or  word  or  action 
in  him.  And  if  he  has  no  share  or  part  with  foolish  errors, 
cannot  be  tossed  about  with  every  wind  of  doctrine,  it  is  because, 
to  be  always  governed  by  this  love  is  the  same  thing  as  to  be 
always  taught  of  God.  (Yxo\\\  Address  to  the  Clergy.) 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

[Samuel  Richardson  was  born  in  16S9,  and  died  in  1761.  lie  was  a 
printer  by  trade,  and  was  the  author  of  three  w-orks  :  Pamela,  or  I'irtue 
R<:warded  (1740);  Clarissa,  or  the  History  of  a  Young  Lady  {1749)  ;  and 
T/ie  History  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  (1753).] 

The  conscious  and  ostentatiously  avowed  end  of  Richardson's 
writings  was  moral  edification  ;  and  doubtless  much  of  what  he 
wrote  can  serve  no  other.  In  Pamela  he  designed  to  recommend 
virtue  to  young  women  through  a  series  of  familiar  letters  ;  and 
the  result  is  a  monument  of  vulgarity,  and  an  outrage  upon  morals. 
Str  Charles  Grandison  carries  no  less  heavy  a  burden  of  moral 
purpose ;  but  the  picture  of  the  ideal  man,  whose  sole  fault  is  a 
trifling  hastiness  of  temper,  and  whom  fortune  has  endowed  with 
vast  wealth,  an  agreeable  person,  engaging  manners,  and  every- 
thing that  can  make  virtue  easy  and  vice  detestable — if  frequently 
ridiculous  and  not  seldom  fatiguing,  is  never  offensive. 

But  Richardson  is  to  be  reckoned  in  the  not  inconsiderable 
number  of  those  artists  whose  practice  has  triumphed  over  their 
principles.  In  Clarissa  he  attempted  to  compose  a  tract  to  prove 
(apparently)  that  a  sincere  belief  in  religion  may  consist  with  the 
most  unbridled  profligacy  ;  and  he  contrived  to  produce  one  of 
the  masterpieces  of  English  literature.  The  characters  are  dis- 
criminated with  nicety,  and  sustained  with  consistency  ;  of  the 
innumerable  details  scarce  one  is  irrelevant  ;  of  the  countless 
subtle  strokes,  scarce  one  superfluous  ;  for  Richardson  was  no 
niggler.  The  conduct  of  the  plot  is  a  model  of  ingenuity  and 
artifice  ;  every  incident  contributes  to  the  one  supreme  effect ; 
nor  is  any  other  modern  tragedy  so  informed  with  the  sense  of 
the  imminent  inevitable.  The  character  of  Clarissa  is  noble  and 
affecting.  She  meets  her  peril  with  courage,  her  ruin  with  dignity, 
and  her  end   with    cheerfulness.      But   it   is    in   the  portrayal   of 


58  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Lovelace  that  Richardson's  genius  reaches  its  cuhnination.  His 
plottings  may  seem,  at  first  sight,  too  elaborate,  his  villanies  over- 
charged, his  confidences  childish.  But  regarded  in  their  true 
proportions,  they  combine  to  produce  one  harmonious  and 
triumphant  whole,  which  at  once  satisfies  and  captivates  the 
imagination.  Among  the  villains  of  fiction  Lovelace  still  stands 
lonely,  inimitable,  and  unapproached. 

Richardson  has  undoubtedly  a  stronger  claim  than  any  other 
writer  to  be  considered  the  father  of  the  English  novel  ;  and  in 
many  of  the  essentials  of  his  art  he  has  never  been  surpassed. 
His  convention  of  a  correspondence  between  the  characters  is 
probably  as  good  as  a  better,  though  he  does  nothing  to  help  it 
out  by  inventing  excuses  for  such  an  excess  of  letter  writing. 
His  style,  at  its  worst,  is  diffuse,  clumsy,  and  involved  ;  and,  at 
its  best,  is  no  more  than  blunt,  direct,  and  unaffected.  When 
his  characters  are  discussing  the  "  social  problems  "  of  their  day 
the  diction  is  no  better  than  the  average  contemporary  pam- 
phleteer's. His  vocabulary  is  commonplace,  shows  no  trace  of 
selection,  and  is  disfigured  by  that  abuse  of  the  current  poetical 
phraseology  into  which  even  a  Thomson  was  sometimes  be- 
trayed, and  by  force  of  which  tears  are  transformed  into  "  pearly 
fugitives."  We  are  not,  indeed,  to  look  to  Richardson  for  that 
nameless  quality  of  style  which  is  the  property  of  a  scholar  and  a 
gentleman,  such  as  Fielding  was  ;  for  Richardson  belonged  to 
neither  category.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  grossly  unfair 
to  be  blind  to  the  great  knack  of  extremely  racy  and  idiomatic 
colloquial  English  which  he  displays  in  his  dialogue  ;  or  to  grudge 
him  the  merits  of  straightforwardness  and  spirit  ;  or  to  refuse  to 
admit  that  at  times  he  shows  complete  command  over  an  instru- 
ment of  moderate  powers  and  compass.  The  effects,  indeed, 
which  he  more  than  once  achieves  seem  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  poverty  of  his  means.  Simple  as  these  are,  who  that  has 
been  thrilled  with  righteous  anger  at  Lovelace's  triumph,  or 
melted  with  compassion  at  Clarissa's  death,  will  venture  to  deny 
that,  twice  or  thrice  at  all  events,  he  has  turned  them  to  the  best 
possible  account  ? 

J.   H.   MlLL.AR. 


MISS  CLARISSA  HARLOWE  TO   MISS  HOWE 

Friday,  three  o'clock. 

.  .  .  My  sister  is  but  this  moment  gone  from  me.  She 
came  up  all  in  a  flame ;  which  obliged  me  abruptly  to  lay  down 
my  pen  ;  she  ran  to  me — 

0  Spirit  !  said  she,  tapping  my  neck  a  little  /oo  hard.  And 
is  it  come  to  this  at  last  ! 

Do  you  beat  me,  Bella  ? 

Do  you  call  this  beating  you  ?  only  tapping  your  shoulder 
thus,  said  she,  tapping  again  more  gently — this  is  what  we 
expected  it  would  come  to — you  want  to  be  independent — my 
father  has  lived  too  long  for  you  ! 

1  was  going  to  speak  with  vehemence  ;  but  she  put  her 
handkerchief  before  my  mouth,  very  rudely — You  have  done 
enough  with  your  pen,  mean  listener,  as  you  are  !  But  know 
that  neither  your  independent  scheme,  nor  any  of  your  visiting 
ones,  will  be  granted  you.  Take  your  course,  perverse  one ! 
Call  in  your  rake  to  help  you  to  an  independence  upon  your 
parents,  and  a  dependence  upon  him  ! — Do  so  ! — Prepare  this 
moment — resolve  what  you  will  take  with  you — to-morrow  you 
go — depend  upon  it  to-morrow  you  go  ! — No  longer  shall  you 
stay  here,  watching  and  creeping  about  to  hearken  to  what 
people  say. — 'Tis  determined,  child  ! — You  go  to-morrow — my 
brother  would  have  come  up  to  tell  you  so  ;  but  I  persuaded  him 
to  the  contrary — for  I  know  not  what  had  become  of  you  if  he 
had. — Such  a  letter  !  such  an  insolent,  such  a  conceited 
challenger !  Oh  thou  vain  creature  !  But  prepare  yourself,  I 
say — to-morrow  you  go — my  brother  will  accept  of  your  bold 
challenge  ;  but  it  must  be  personal  :  and  at  my  uncle  Antony's — ■ 
or  perhaps  at  Mr.  Solmes's — 

Thus  she  ran  on,  almost  foaming  with  passion  ;  till,  quite  out 
of  patience,    I   said,   No  more  of  your  violence,   Bella. — Had   I 


6o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


known  in  what  way  you  designed  to  come  up,  you  should  not 
have  found  my  chamber-door  open — talk  to  your  servant  in  this 
manner.  Unlike  you,  as  I  bless  God  1  am,  I  am  nevertheless 
your  sister — and  let  me  tell  you  that  I  won't  go  to-morrow,  nor 
the  next  day,  nor  next  day  to  that — except  I  am  dragged  away 
by  \-iolcnce. 

What  !  not  if  your  father  or  your  mother  command  it — Girl  ! 
said  she,  intendingr  another  word,  by  her  pause  and  manner 
before  it  came  out. 

Let  it  come  to  that,  Bella  ;  then  I  shall  know  what  to  say. 
But  it  shall  be  from  their  own  mouths,  if  I  do — not  from  yours, 
nor  your  Betty's. — And  say  another  word  to  me,  in  this  manner, 
and  be  the  consequence  what  it  may,  I  will  force  myself  into 
their  presence  ;  and  demand  what  I  have  done  to  be  used 
thus  ! 

Come  along  child  I  Come  along,  Meekness  —  taking  my 
hand,  and  leading  me  towards  the  door — Demand  it  of  them 
now — you'll  find  both  your  despised  parents  together  ! — What  ! 
does  your  heart  fail  you  ? — for  I  resisted  being  thus  insolently 
offered  to  be  led,  and  pulled  my  hand  from  her. 

I  want  not  to  be  led,  said  I  ;  and  since  I  can  plead  your 
invitation,  I  will  go  :  and  was  posting  to  the  stairs  accordingly 
in  my  passion — l^ut  she  got  between  me  and  the  door,  and 
shut  it — 

Let  me  first,  bold  one,  said  she,  apprise  them  of  your  visit — 
for  your  own  sake  let  me — for  my  brother  is  with  them.  But 
yet  opening  it  again,  seeing  me  shrink  back — Go,  if  you  will  ! — 
Why  don't  you  go  ? — Why  don't  you  go.  Miss  ? — following  me  to 
my  closet,  whither  I  retired,  with  my  heart  full,  and  pulled  the 
sash-door  after  me  ;  and  could  no  longer  hold  in  my  tears. 

Nor  would  I  answer  one  word  to  her  repeated  aggravations, 
nor  to  her  demands  upon  me  to  open  the  door  (for  the  key  was 
on  the  inside)  ;  nor  so  much  as  turn  my  head  towards  her,  as 
she  looked  through  the  glass  at  me.  And  at  last,  which  vexed 
her  to  the  heart,  I  drew  the  silk  curtain  that  she  should  not  see 
me,  and  down  she  went  muttering  all  the  way. 

Is  not  this  usage  enough  to  provoke  a  rashness  never  before 
thought  of? 

As  it  is  but  too  proljable  that  I  may  be  hurried  away  to 
uncle's  without  l^eing  able  to  give  you  previous  notice  of  it  ;  I 
beg  you   that   as   soon   as   you   shall  hear  of  such  a  violence,  you 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON  6i 

would  send  to  the  usual  place,  to  take  back  such  of  your  letters 
as  may  not  have  reached  my  hands,  or  to  fetch  any  of  mine  that 
may  be  there. — May  you,  my  dear,  be  always  happy,  prays  your 

Clarissa  Harlowe. 
(From  Clarissa.) 


MR.  LOVELACE  TO  JOHN  BELFORD,  ESQ. 

At  A/rs.  Sinclair  s^  Alonday  afternoon. 
.  .  Dreading  what  might  happen  as  to  her  intellects,  and 
being  very  apprehensive  that  she  might  go  through  a  great  deal 
before  morning  (though  more  violent  she  could  not  well  be  with 
the  worst  she  dreaded),  I  humoured  her,  and  ordered  Will  to 
endeavour  to  get  a  coach  directly,  to  carry  us  to  Hampstead  ;  I 
cared  not  at  what  price. 

Robbers,  with  whom  I  would  have  terrified  her,  she  feared 
not — /  was  all  her  fear,  I  found  ;  and  this  house  her  terror  :  for 
I  saw  plainly  that  she  now  believed  that  Lady  Betty  and  Miss 
Montague  were  both  impostors. 

But  her  mistrust  is  a  little  of  the  latest  to  do  her  service  ! 
And,  O  Jack,  the  rage  of  love,  the  rage  of  revenge  is  upon 
me  !  by  turns  they  tear  me  !  The  progress  already  made — the 
women's  instigations — the  power  1  shall  have  to  try  her  to  the 
utmost,  and  still  to  marry  her,  if  she  be  not  to  be  brought  to 
cohabitation — let  me  perish,  Belford,  if  she  escape  me  now  '. 
Will  is  not  yet  come  back.      Near  eleven. 

Will  is  this  moment  returned.  No  coach  to  be  got  either  for 
love  or  money. 

Once  more  she  urges — to  Mrs.  Leeson's,  let  me  go,  Lovelace  ! 
Good  Lovelace,  let  me  go  to  Mrs.  Leeson's.  What  is  Miss 
Montague's  illness  to  my  terror  ?  For  the  Almighty's  sake,  Mr. 
Lovelace  ! — her  hands  clasped  ! 

Oh,  my  angel  !  What  a  wildness  is  this  !  Do  you  know,  do 
you  see,  my  dearest  life,  what  appearances  your  causeless 
apprehensions  have  given  you  ?  Do  you  know  it  is  past  eleven 
o'clock  ? 

Twelve,  one,  two,  three,  four — any  hour,  I  care  not — if  you 
mean  me  honourably,  let  me  go  out  of  this  hated  house  ! 


62  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Thou'lt  observe,  Belford,  that  though  this  was  written  after- 
wards, yet  (as  in  other  places)  I  write  it  as  it  was  spoken  and 
happened,  as  if  I  had  retired  to  put  down  every  sentence  as 
spoken.  I  know  thou  hkest  this  hvely  present-tense  manner,  as 
it  is  one  of  my  pecuhars. 

Just  as  she  had  repeated  the  last  words,  "  If  you  mean  me 
honourably,  let  me  go  out  of  this  hated  house,"  in  came  Mrs. 
Sinclair,  in  a  great  ferment — And  what,  pray,  Madam  has  this 
house  done  to  you  ?  Mr.  Lovelace,  you  have  known  me  some 
time  ;  and  if  I  have  not  the  niceness  of  this  lady,  I  hope  I  do 
not  deserve  to  be  treated  thus  ! 

She  set  her  huge  arms  akimbo — Hoh  !  Madam,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  am  amazed  at  your  freedoms  with  my  character  ! 
And,  Mr.  Lovelace  (holding  up  and  violently  shaking  her  head), 
if  you  are  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honour — 

Having  never  before  seen  anything  but  obsequiousness  in  this 
woman,  little  as  she  liked  her,  she  was  frighted  at  her  masculine 
air  and  fierce  look — God  help  me  !  she  cried,  what  will  become 
of  me  now  !  then,  turnings  her  head  hither  and  thither,  in  a  wild 
kind  of  amaze,  Whom  have  I  found  protector !  What  will 
become  of  me  now  ! 

I  will  be  your  protector,  my  dearest  love  ! — But  indeed  you 
are  uncharitably  severe  upon  poor  Mrs.  Sinclair  !  Indeed  you 
are  ! — She  is  a  gentlewoman  born,  and  the  relict  of  a  man  of 
honour ;  and  though  left  in  such  circumstances  as  to  oblige  her 
to  let  lodgings,  yet  would  she  scorn  to  be  guilty  of  a  wilful 
baseness. 

I  hope  so — it  may  be  so — I  may  be  mistaken — but- — but 
there  is  no  crime,  I  presume,  no  treason  to  say  I  don't  like  her 
house. 

The  old  dragon  straddled  up  to  her,  with  her  arms  kimboed 
again,  her  eye-brows  erect,  like  the  bristles  upon  a  hog's  back, 
and  scowling  over  her  shortened  nose,  more  than  half  hid  her 
ferret  eyes.  Her  mouth  was  distorted.  She  pouted  out  her 
blubber-lips,  as  if  to  bellows  up  wind  and  sputter  into  her  horse- 
nostrils  ;  and  her  chin  was  curdled,  and  more  than  usually 
prominent  with  passion. 

With  two  "  Hoh — Madams,"  she  accosted  the  frighted  fair 
one  ;   who,  terrified,  caught  hold  of  my  sleeve. 

I  feared  she  would  fall  into  fits  ;  and  with  a  look  of  indigna- 
tion, told   Mrs.  Sinclair  that  these  apartments  were  mine  ;  and  I 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON  63 

could  not  imagine  what  she  meant,  either  by  Hstening  to  what 
passed  between  me  and  my  spouse,  or  to  come  in  uninvited  ; 
and  still  more  I  wondered  at  her  giving  herself  these  strange 
liberties. 

1  may  be  to  blame.  Jack,  for  suffering  this  wretch  to  give 
herself  these  airs  ;  but  her  coming  in  was  without  my  orders. 

The  old  beldam,  throwing  herself  into  a  chair,  fell  a  blubbering 
and  exclaiming.  And  the  pacifying  of  her,  and  endeavouring  to 
reconcile  the  lady  to  her,  took  up  till  near  one  o'clock. 

And  thus,  between  terror,  and  the  late  hour,  and  what  followed, 
she  was  diverted  from  the  thoughts  of  getting  out  of  the  house 
to  Mrs.  Leeson's,  or  anywhere  else. 


MR.  LOVELACE  TO  JOHN  BELFOKD,  ESQ. 

Tuesday  inonting. 

And    now,   Belford,    1    can    go  no    further.      The   affair   is    over. 
Clarissa  lives.      And  I  am,  Your  humble  servant, 

R.   LOVELACK. 
(From  the  Same.) 


MR.    BELFORD   TO   ROBERT   LOVELACE,   ESQ. 

Thursday  night. 

I  MAY  as  well  try  to  write  ;  since,  were  I  to  go  to  bed,  1  shall 
not  sleep.  I  never  had  such  a  weight  of  grief  upon  my  mind  in 
my  life,  as  upon  the  demise  of  this  admirable  woman  ;  whose 
soul  is  now  rejoicing  in  the  regions  of  Hght.  You  may  be  glad 
to  know  the  particulars  of  her  happy  exit.  I  will  try  to  proceed  ; 
for  all  is  hush  and  still  ;  the  family  retired  ;  but  not  one  of  them, 
and  least  of  all  her  poor  cousin,  I  daresay,  to  rest.  At  four 
o'clock,  as  I  mentioned  in  my  last,  I  was  sent  for  down  ;  and  as 
thou  usedst  to  like  my  descriptions,  I  will  give  thee  the  woful  scene 
that  presented  itself  to  me  as  I  approached  the  bed.  The 
Colonel  was  the  first  that  took  my  attention,  kneeling  on  the  side 
of  the  bed,  the  lady's  right  hand  in  both  his,  which  his  face 
covered,    bathing    it    with    his     tears  ;    although    she    had    been 


64  ENGLISH  PROSE 


comforting  him,  as  the  women  since  told  me,  in  elevated  strains, 
but  broken  accents. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  sat  the  good  widow  ;  her  face 
overwhelmed  with  tears,  leaning  her  head  against  the  bed's  head 
in  a  most  disconsolate  manner  ;  and  turning  her  face  to  me,  as 
soon  as  she  saw  me — O  Mr.  Belford,  cried  she  with  folded  hands 
— the  dear  lady — a  heavy  sob  pemiitted  her  not  to  say  more. 
Mrs.  Smith,  with  clasped  fingers  and  uplifted  eyes,  as  if  imploring 
help  from  the  only  power  which  could  give  it,  was  kneeling'  down 
at  the  bed's  foot,  tears  in  large  drops  trickling  down  her  cheeks. 
Her  nurse  was  kneeling  between  the  widow  and  Mrs.  Smith, 
her  arms  extended.  In  one  hand  she  held  an  ineffectual  cordial 
which  she  had  just  been  offering  her  dying  mistress  ;  her  face 
was  swollen  with  weeping  (though  used  to  such  scenes  as  this)  ; 
and  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  me,  as  if  she  called  upon  me 
by  them  to  join  in  the  helpless  sorrow  ;  a  fresh  stream  bursting 
from  them  as  I  approached  the  bed. 

The  maid  of  the  house  with  her  face  upon  her  folded  arms, 
as  she  stood  leaning  against  the  wainscot,  more  audibly  expressed 
her  grief  than  any  of  the  others.  The  lady  had  been  silent  a 
few  minutes,  and  speechless,  as  they  thought,  moving  her  lips 
without  uttering  a  word  ;  one  hand,  as  I  said,  in  her  cousin's. 
But  when  Mrs.  Lovick,  on  my  approach,  pronounced  my  name 
— O  Mr.  Belford,  said  she,  with  a  faint  inward  voice,  but  very 
distinct  nevertheless  —  Now!  —  Now  —  (in  broken  periods  she 
spoke).  I  bless  God  for  His  mercies  to  His  poor  creature — all 
will  soon  be  over — a  few — a  very  few  moments — will  end  the 
strife — and  I  shall  be  hajjpy  !  Comfort  here,  sir  (turning  her  head 
to  the  Colonel) — comfort  my  cousin — see  !  the  blame — able  kind- 
ness— he  would  not  wish  me  to  be  happy — so  soon  I  Here  she 
stopped  for  two  or  three  minutes,  earnestly  looking  upon  him. 
Then  resuming — My  dearest  cousin,  said  she,  be  comforted — 
what  is  dying  but  the  common  lot  ? — The  mortal  frame  may 
seem  to  labour — but  that  is  all  ! — It  is  not  so  hard  to  die  as  I 
believed  it  to  be  ! — The  preparation  is  the  difficulty — I  bless  God 
I  have  had  time  for  that — the  rest  is  worse  to  beholders  than  to 
me  ! — -I  am  all  blessed  hope — hope  itself.  She  looked  what  she 
said,  a  sweet  smile  beaming  over  her  countenance. 

After  a  short  silence — Once  more,  my  dear  cousin,  said  she 
but  still  in  broken  accents,  commend  me  most  dutifully  to  my 
father  and  mother. — There   she   stopped.      And   then  proceeding- 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON  65 

— To  my  sister,  to  my  brother,  to  my  uncles — and  tell  them,  I 
bless  them  with  my  parting  breath — for  all  their  goodness  to  me 
— even  for  their  displeasure,  I  bless  them — most  happy  has  been 
to  me  my  punishment  here  !  Happy  indeed  !  She  was  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  lifting  up  her  eyes,  and  the  hand  her  cousin 
held  not  between  his.  Then  O  death  !  said  she,  where  is  thy 
sting  !  (the  words  I  remember  to  have  heard  in  the  burial-service 
read  over  my  uncle  and  poor  Belton).  And  after  a  pause — It  is 
good  for  me  that  I  was  afflicted  !  Words  of  Scripture,  I  suppose. 
Then  turning  towards  us,  who  were  lost  in  speechless  sorrow — 
O  dear,  dear  gentlemen,  said  she,  you  know  not  what  foretastes 
—what  assurances — and  there  she  again  stopped,  and  looked  up 
as  if  in  a  thankful  rapture,  sweetly  smiling. 

Then  turning  her  head  towards  me — Do  you,  sir,  tell  your 
friend  that  I  forgive  him  !  And  I  pray  to  God  to  forgive  him  ! 
Again  pausing,  and  lifting  up  her  eyes,  as  if  praying  that  he 
would.  Let  him  know  how  happily  I  die  : — and  that,  such  as 
my  own,  I  wish  to  be  his  last  hour.  She  was  again  silent  a  few 
moments  :  and  then  resuming — My  sight  fails  me  !— Your  voices 
only — (for  we  both  applauded  her  Christian,  her  divine  frame, 
though  in  accents  as  broken  as  her  own)  and  the  voice  of  grief 
is  alike  in  all.  Is  not  this  Mr.  Morden's  hand  ?  pressing  one 
of  his  with  that  he  had  just  let  go — Which  is  Mr.  Belford's  ? 
holding  out  the  other.  I  gave  her  mine.  God  Almighty  bless 
you  both,  said  she,  and  make  you  both — in  your  last  hour — 
for  you  must  come  to  this — happy  as  I  am. 

She  paused  again,  her  breath  growing  shorter ;  and  after  a 
few  minutes — And  now,  my  dearest  cousin,  give  me  your  hand — 
nearer — -'still  nearer — drawing  it  towards  her  ;  and  she  pressed 
it  with  her  dying  lips — God  protect  you,  dear,  dear  sir,  and  once 
more  receive  my  best  and  most  grateful  thanks — and  tell  my 
dear  Miss  Howe,  and  vouchsafe  to  see  and  to  tell  my  worthy 
Norton — -she  will  be  one  day,  I  fear  not,  though  now  lowly  in 
her  fortunes,  a  saint  in  heaven — tell  them  both  that  I  remember 
them  with  thankful  blessings  in  my  last  moments  !  And  pray 
God  to  give  them  happiness  here  for  many,  many  years  for  the 
sake  of  their  friends  and  lovers  ;  and  a  heavenly  crown  hereafter  ; 
and  such  assurances  of  it,  as  I  have,  through  the  all-satisfying 
merits  of  our  blessed  Redeemer. 

Her  sweet  voice  and  broken  periods  methinks  still  fill  my  ears, 
and  never  will  be  out  of  my  memory.  After  a  short  silence,  in 
VOL.  IV  F 


66  ENGLISH  PROSE 


a  more  broken  and  faint  accent — And  you,  Mr.  Belford,  pressing 
my  hand,  may  God  preserve  you,  and  make  you  sensible  of  all 
your  errors — you  see,  in  me,  how  all  ends — may  you  be — and 
down  sank  her  head  upon  her  pillow,  she  fainting  away  and 
drawing  from  us  her  hands.  We  thought  she  was  then  gone  ; 
and  each  gave  way  to  a  violent  burst  of  grief.  But  soon  showing 
signs  of  returning  life,  our  attention  was  again  engaged  ;  and  I 
besought  her,  when  a  little  recovered,  to  complete  in  my  favour 
her  half-pronounced  blessing.  She  waved  her  hand  to  us  both, 
and  bowed  her  head  six  times,  as  we  have  since  recollected,  as 
if  distinguishing  every  person  present  ;  not  forgetting  the  nurse 
and  the  maid-servant  ;  the  latter  having  approached  the  bed, 
weeping  as  if  crowding  in  for  the  divine  lady's  last  blessing ;  and 
she  spake  faltering  and  inwardly — Bless — bless — bless — you  all 
— and — -now — and  now — (holding  up  her  almost  lifeless  hands 
for  the  last  time)  come — O  come— Blessed  Lord  JESUS  !  And 
with  these  words,  the  last  but  half-pronounced,  expired  : — such  a 
smile,  such  a  charming  serenity  overspreading  her  sweet  face  at 
the  instant,  as  seemed  to  manifest  her  eternal  happiness  already 
begun.      O  Lovelace  ! — But  I  can  write  no  more  ! 


(From  the  Same.) 


BISHOP    BUTLER 

[Joseph  Butler,  born  at  Wantage,  1692,  was  trained  for  the  Presbyterian 
ministry,  but  went  to  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  17 14,  and  eventually  took  orders 
in  the  Church  of  England.  In  1718  (largely  through  Dr  Samuel  Clarke, 
with  whom  he  had  corresponded)  he  was  made  preacher  at  the  Rolls 
Chapel,  where  he  delivered  the  famous  Sermons,  published  1726.  From 
1721  to  1725  he  held  the  Rectory  of  Haughton,  and  from  1725  to  1733 
that  of  Stanhope,  in  Durham.  In  1733  he  became  chaplain  to  Lord 
Chancellor  Talbot.  In  1736  he  published  his  Analogy  of  Religion,  natural 
and  revealed,  to  the  constitution  and  course  of  Nature.  Thereafter  he  became 
successively  Bishop  of  Bristol  (1737),  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  (1740),  and  Bishop  of 
Durham  (1750).      He  died  at  Bath  and  was  buried  in  Bristol  Cathedral  1752.] 

Bishop  Butler  was  a  logical  writer,  not  simply  in  the  sense  of 
one  who  argues  correctly  when  he  argues  at  all,  but  of  one  who 
loves  to  reason.  He  was  a  man  of  understanding  ;  and  his 
understanding  was  applied  rarely  to  political  or  ecclesiastical 
subjects,  chiefly  and  with  peculiar  fondness  to  broad  general 
questions  of  ethics  and  natural  theology.  His  leading  idea  was 
the  Stoic  idea  of  an  order  of  nature,  parallel  with  the  lesser 
world  of  human  beings,  or  (more  accurately)  forming  one  system 
with  it.  Perhaps  in  the  Sermons  (of  which  by  far  the  greater 
number  are  philosophical)  the  idea  of  a  Law  of  nature  predomi- 
nates, and  in  the  A?ialogy  the  idea  of  an  Order  of  nature.  But 
the  two  ideas  pervade  the  whole  of  his  thought.  Virtue  is  defined 
by  Butler  as  "  following  Nature,"  vice  as  "  departing  from "  it. 
Metaphysically,  vice  is  contrary  to  the  nature  and  reason  of 
things  : — this  was  Dr.  Clarke's  way  of  approaching  the  subject, 
and  Butler  will  not  cjuarrel  with  it.  But  he  himself  prefers 
the  argument  from  experience  ("vice  is  a  violation  of  our  own 
nature  ")  as,  in  the  Analogy  he  prefers  the  argument  from  design 
to  Clarke's  a  priori  argument  for  the  existence  of  God. 

"  It  is  from  considering  the  relations  which  the  several  appetites 
and  passions  in  the  inward  frame  have  to  each  other,  and  above 


68  ENGLISH  PROSE 


all  the  supremacy  of  reflection  or  conscience,  that  we  get  the  idea 
of  the  system  or  constitution  of  human  nature."  Our  nature  (he 
says)  is  made  for  virtue  as  a  watch  is  made  to  measure  time. 
Whereas  in  the  brutes  there  is  nothing  but  appetites  and  passions  ; 
they  have  no  conscience.  Their  passions  have  power ;  but  they 
have  no  principle  in  them  possessing  authority.  Man  has  such  a 
principle  in  conscience  :  "  To  preside  and  govern,  from  the  very 
economy  and  constitution  of  man,  belongs  to  it.  Had  it  strength 
as  it  has  right,  had  it  power  as  it  has  manifest  authority,  it 
would  absolutely  govern  the  world." 

In  Butler's  writings,  the  influence  of  Greek  philosophy  is  very 
plain  and  his  very  notion  of  an  order  or  system  of  the  passions 
leads  us  beyond  the  Stoics  to  Aristotle  and  his  "golden  mean." 
This  is  no  place  to  estimate  the  value  of  his  ethical  philosophy, 
and  his  criticisms  of  predecessors  and  contemporaries.  But  it 
may  be  remarked  that  the  influence  of  the  Seri/wfts  has  been  con- 
fessedly g'reater  in  ethics  than  the  influence  of  the  Atialogy  in 
apologetics.  No  doubt  some  of  the  sayings  in  the  latter  have 
become  household  words  (for  example  :  "  Probability  is  the  very 
guide  of  life");  but  the  former  will  rank  higher  even  in  literary 
merit.  The  crisp  clear  sentences  are  features  of  the  author's 
style  in  both  ;  but  when  he  rises  to  eloquence  it  is  in  the  Sermons 
(as  in  the  often  copied  sermon  on  Balaam).  He  could  on 
occasion  deliver  what  is  called  a  "  practical "  discourse  (as  in  the 
"  Charity  Sermons  ")  ;  and  his  "  Charge  to  the  Clergy  of  Durham  " 
contained  plain  speaking  that  brought  some  obloquy  on  the 
speaker.  But  even  on  such  occasions  his  thoughts  seemed  to  fall 
naturally  into  the  form  of  arguments.  He  appeals  at  all  times  to 
the  reason,  and  only  incidentally  to  the  feelings.  There  is 
probably  no  writer  from  whose  works  so  little  could  be  pruned 
away  as  a  mere  superfluity  of  oratory.  His  very  quotations  from 
Scripture  are  usually  of  aphorisms  ;  and  very  characteristic  is  his 
fondness  for  Jesus  the  Son  of  Sirach,  with  whom  he  has  certainly 
helped  to  make  the  English  people  familiar.  Yet  there  is  no  one 
who  is  more  successful  in  infecting  his  readers  with  his  own 
ardour  and  impressing  them  with  a  feeling  of  his  entire  sincerity. 


James  Bonar. 


THE   HABIT  OF  CASUAL  READING 

Though  it  is  scarce  possible  to  avoid  judging,  in  some  way 
or  other,  of  almost  every  thing  which  offers  itself  to  one's 
thoughts ;  yet  it  is  certain,  that  many  persons,  from  different 
causes,  never  exercise  their  judgment  upon  what  comes  before 
them,  in  the  way  of  determining  whether  it  be  conclusive  and 
holds.  They  are  perhaps  entertained  with  some  things,  not  so 
with  others  ;  they  like,  and  they  dislike  :  but  whether  that  which 
is  proposed  to  be  made  out  be  really  made  out  or  not ;  whether 
a  matter  be  stated  according  to  the  real  truth  of  the  case,  seems 
to  the  generality  of  people  merely  a  circumstance  of  no  considera- 
tion at  all.  Arguments  are  often  wanted  for  some  accidental 
purpose :  but  proof  as  such  is  what  they  never  want  for 
themselves  ;  for  their  own  satisfaction  of  mind,  or  conduct  in  life. 
Not  to  mention  the  multitudes  who  read  merely  for  the  sake  of 
talking,  or  to  qualify  themselves  for  the  world,  or  some  such  kind 
of  reasons  ;  there  are,  even  of  the  few  who  read  for  their  own 
entertainment,  and  have  a  real  curiosity  to  see  what  is  said, 
several,  which  is  prodigious,  who  have  no  sort  of  curiosity  to  see 
what  is  true  :  I  say,  curiosity  ;  because  it  is  too  obvious  to  be 
mentioned,  how  much  that  religious  and  sacred  attention,  which 
is  due  to  truth,  and  to  the  important  question,  What  is  the  rule 
of  life  ?  is  lost  out  of  the  world. 

For  the  sake  of  this  whole  class  of  readers,  for  they  are  of 
different  capacities,  different  kinds,  and  get  into  this  way  from 
different  occasions,  I  have  often  wished,  that  it  had  been  the 
custom  to  lay  before  people  nothing  in  matters  of  argument  but 
premises,  and  leave  them  to  draw  conclusions  themselves  ;  which, 
though  it  could  not  be  done  in  all  cases,  might  in  many. 

The  great  number  of  books  and  papers  of  amusement,  which, 
of  one  kind  or  another,  daily  come  in  one's  way,  have  in  part 
occasioned,  and  most  perfectly  fall  in  with  and  humour  this  idle 


70  ENGLISH  PROSE 


way  of  reading  and  considering  things.  By  this  means,  time 
even  in  soHtude  is  happily  got  rid  of,  without  the  pain  of  atten- 
tion ;  neither  is  any  part  of  it  more  put  to  the  account  of  idleness, 
one  can  scarce  forbear  saying,  is  spent  with  less  thought,  than 
great  part  of  that  which  is  spent  in  reading. 

Thus  people  habituate  themselves  to  let  things  pass  through 
their  minds,  as  one  may  speak,  rather  than  to  think  of  them. 
Thus  by  use  they  become  satisfied  merely  with  seeing  what  is 
said,  without  going  any  further.  Review  and  attention,  and  even 
forming  a  judgment,  becomes  fatigue  ;  and  to  lay  anything  before 
them  that  requires  it,  is  putting  them  quite  out  of  their  way. 

(From  the  Preface  to  Seniions.) 


ACTIONS  NATURAL  AND   UNNATURAL 

The  whole  argument  which  I  have  been  now  insisting  upon,  may 
be  thus  summed  up,  and  given  you  in  one  view.  The  nature  of 
man  is  adapted  to  some  course  of  action  or  other.  Upon 
comparing  some  actions  with  this  nature,  they  appear  suitable 
and  correspondent  to  it :  from  comparison  of  other  actions  with 
the  same  nature,  there  arises  to  our  view  some  unsuitableness 
or  disproportion.  The  correspondence  of  actions  to  the  nature 
of  the  agent  renders  them  natural  :  their  disproportion  to  it, 
unnatural.  That  an  action  is  correspondent  to  the  nature  of  the 
agent,  does  not  arise  from  its  being  agreeable  to  the  principle 
which  happens  to  be  the  strongest :  for  it  may  be  so,  and  yet  be 
quite  disproportionate  to  the  nature  of  the  agent.  The  corre- 
spondence therefore,  or  disproportion,  arises  from  somewhat  else. 
This  can  be  nothing  but  a  difference  in  nature  and  kind, 
altogether  distinct  from  strength,  between  the  inward  principles. 
Some  then  are  in  nature  and  kind  superior  to  others.  And  the 
correspondence  arises  from  the  action  being  comformable  to  the 
higher  principle  ;  and  the  unsuitableness  from  its  being  contrary 
to  it.  Reasonable  self-love  and  conscience  are  the  chief  or 
superior  principles  in  the  nature  of  man  :  because  an  action  may 
be  suitable  to  this  nature,  though  all  other  principles  be  violated  ; 
but  becomes  unsuitable,  if  either  of  those  are.  Conscience  and 
self-love,  if  we  understand  our  true  happiness,  always  lead  us  the 
same  way.      Duty  and  interest  are  perfectly  coincident ;  for  the 


R  IS  HOP  BUTLER  71 


most  part  in  this  world,  but  entirely  and  in  every  instance  if  we 

take  in  the  future,  and  the  whole  ;  this  being  implied  in  the  notion 

of  a  good  and  perfect  administration  of  things.      Thus  they  who 

have  been  so  wise  in  their  generation  as  to  regard  only  their  own 

supposed  interest,  at   the  expense  and   to  the  injury  of  others, 

shall  at  last  find,  that  he  who  has  given  up  all  the  advantages  of 

the  present   world,   rather   than    violate   his  conscience  and    the 

relations  of  life,   has  infinitely  better  provided   for  himself,   and 

secured  his  own  interest  and  happiness.  ,„ 

(y  xo\\\  Scniions.) 


SELF-LOVE  AND  APPETITES 

Every  man  hath  a  general  desire  of  his  own  happiness  ;  and 
likewise  a  variety  of  particular  affections,  passions,  and  appetites 
to  particular  external  objects.  The  former  proceeds  from,  or  is 
self-love  ;  and  seems  inseparable  from  all  sensible  creatures,  who 
can  reflect  upon  themselves  and  their  own  interest  or  happiness, 
so  as  to  have  that  interest  an  object  to  their  minds  :  what  is  to 
be  said  of  the  latter  is,  that  they  proceed  from,  or  together  make 
up  that  particular  nature,  according  to  which  man  is  made.  The 
object  the  former  pursues  is  somewhat  internal,  our  own 
happiness,  enjoyment,  satisfaction  ;  whether  we  have,  or  have  not, 
a  distinct  particular  perception  what  it  is,  or  wherein  it  consists  : 
the  objects  of  the  latter  are  this  or  that  particular  external  thing, 
which  the  affections  tend  towards,  and  of  which  it  hath  always  a 
particular  idea  or  perception.  The  principle  we  call  self-love 
never  seeks  anything  external  for  the  sake  of  the  thing,  but  only 
as  a  means  of  happiness  or  good  :  particular  affections  rest  in  the 
external  things  themselves.  One  belongs  to  man  as  a  reasonable 
creature  reflecting  upon  his  own  interest  or  happiness.  The 
other,  though  quite  distinct  from  reason,  are  as  much  a  part  of 
human  nature. 

That  all  particular  appetites  and  passions  are  towards  external 
things  the7nselves,  distinct  from  \.h&  pleasure  arising  from  t/iein,  is 
manifested  from  hence  ;  that  there  could  not  be  this  pleasure, 
were  it  not  for  that  prior  suitableness  between  the  object  and  the 
passion  :  there  could  be  no  enjoyment  or  delight  from  one  thing 
more  than  another,  from  eating  food  more  than  from  swallowing 
a  stone,  if  there  were  not  an  affection  or  appetite  to  one  thing 
more  than  another.  ^P^.^^^^  ^1^^  S^^^^^^ 


72  ENGLISH  PROSE 


PROVIDENCE    PUNISHES  VICE,  AND   MITIGATES 
THE   PUNISHMENT 

And  though  the  nattiral  miseries  which  are  foreseen  to  be 
annexed  to  a  vicious  course  of  life  are  providentially  intended  to 
prevent  it,  in  the  same  manner  as  civil  penalties  are  intended  to 
prevent  civil  crimes  ;  yet  those  miseries,  those  natural  penalties 
admit  of  and  receive  natural  reliefs,  no  less  than  any  other 
miseries,  which  could  not  have  been  foreseen  or  prevented. 
Charitable  providence  then,  thus  manifested  in  the  course  of 
nature,  which  is  the  example  of  our  heavenly  Father,  most 
evidently  leads  us  to  relieve,  not  only  such  distresses  as  were 
unavoidable,  but  also  such  as  people  by  their  own  faults  have 
brought  upon  themselves.  The  case  is,  that  we  cannot  judge  in 
what  degree  it  was  intended  they  should  sufifer,  by  considering 
what,  in  the  natural  course  oL  things,  would  be  the  whole  bad  con- 
secjuences  of  their  faults,  if  those  consecjuences  were  not  prevented 
when  nature  has  provided  means  to  prevent  great  part  of  them. 
We  cannot,  for  instance,  estimate  what  degree  of  present  suffer- 
ings God  has  annexed  to  drunkenness,  by  considering  the  diseases 
which  follow  from  this  vice,  as  they  would  be  if  they  admitted  of 
no  reliefs  or  remedies  ;  but  by  considering  the  remaining  misery 
of  those  diseases,  after  the  application  of  such  remedies  as  nature 
has  provided.  For  as  it  is  certain  on  the  one  side,  that  those 
diseases  are  providential  corrections  of  intemperance,  it  is  as 
certain  on  the  other,  that  the  remedies  are  providential  mitigations 
of  those  corrections  ;  and  altogether  as  much  providential,  when 
administered  by  the  good  hand  of  charity  in  the  case  of  our 
neighbour,  as  when  administered  by  self-love  in  our  own.  Thus 
the  pain,  and  danger,  and  other  distresses  of  sickness  and  poverty 
remaining,  after  all  the  charitable  relief  which  can  be  procured  ; 
and  the  many  uneasy  circumstances  which  cannot  but  accompany 
that  relief,  though  distributed  with  all  supposable  humanity  ;  these 
are  the  natural  corrections  of  idleness  and  debauchery,  supposing 
these  vices  brought  on  those  miseries.  And  very  severe  correc- 
tions they  are  :  and  they  ought  not  to  be  increased  by  withholding 
that  relief,  or  by  harshness  in  the  distribution  of  it.  Corrections 
of  all  kinds,  even  the  most  necessary  ones,  may  easily  exceed  their 
proper  bound  :  and  when  they  do  so,  they  become  mischievous  ; 


BISHOP  BUTLER  73 


and  mischievous  in  the  measure  they  exceed  it.  And  the  natural 
corrections  which  we  have  been  speaking  of  would  be  excessive, 
if  the  natural  mitigations  provided  for  them  were  not  administered. 

(From  the  Same.) 


THE  ARGUMENT   FROiM    PROBABILITY    IN 
RELIGION 

Persons  who  speak  of  the  evidence  of  religion  as  doubtful,  and 
of  this  supposed  doubtfulness  as  a  positive  argument  against  it, 
should  be  put  upon  considering,  what  that  evidence  indeed  is, 
which  they  act  upon  with  regard  to  their  temporal  interests. 
For,  it  is  not  only  extremely  difficult,  but  in  many  cases  absolutely 
impossible,  to  balance  pleasure  and  pain,  satisfaction  and  un- 
easiness, so  as  to  be  able  to  say  on  which  side  the  overplus  is. 
There  are  the  like  difficulties  and  impossibilities  in  making  the 
due  allowances  for  a  change  of  temper  and  taste,  for  satiety, 
disgusts,  ill  health  :  any  of  which  render  men  incapable  of  en- 
joying, after  they  have  obtained  what  they  most  eagerly  desired. 
Numberless  too  are  the  accidents,  besides  that  one  of  untimely 
death,  which  may  even  probably  disappoint  the  best  concerted 
schemes  :  and  strong  objections  are  often  seen  to  lie  against 
them,  not  to  be  removed  or  answered,  but  which  seem  over- 
balanced by  reasons  on  the  other  side  ;  so  as  that  the  certain 
difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  pursuit  are,  by  every  one,  thought 
justly  disregarded,  upon  account  of  the  appearing  greater  ad- 
vantages in  case  of  success,  though  there  be  but  little  probability 
of  it.  Lastly,  every  one  observes  our  liableness,  if  we  be  not 
upon  our  guard,  to  be  deceived  by  the  falsehood  of  men,  and  the 
false  appearances  of  things  :  and  this  danger  must  be  greatly 
increased,  if  there  be  a  strong  bias  within,  suppose  from  indulged 
passion,  to  favour  the  deceit.  Hence  arises  that  great  uncertainty 
and  doubtfulness  of  proof,  wherein  our  temporal  interest  really 
consists  ;  what  are  the  most  probable  means  of  attaining  it ;  and 
whether  those  means  will  eventually  be  successful.  And  number- 
less instances  there  are,  in  the  daily  course  of  life,  in  which  all 
men  think  it  reasonable  to  engage  in  pursuits,  though  the 
probability  is  greatly  against  succeeding :  and  to  make  such 
provision    for    themselves,    as    it    is   supposable   they   may   have 


74  ENGLISH  PROSE 


occasion  for,  though  the  plain  acknowledged  probability  is,  that 
they  never  shall.  Then  those  who  think  the  objection  against 
revelation,  from  its  light  not  being  universal,  to  be  of  weight, 
should  observe,  that  the  Author  of  Nature,  in  numberless  instances, 
bestow  That  upon  some,  which  He  does  not  upon  others,  who 
seem  equally  to  stand  in  need  of  it.  Indeed  He  appears  to 
bestow  all  His  gifts  with  the  most  promiscuous  variety  among 
creatures  of  the  same  species  :  health  and  strength,  capacities  of 
prudence  and  of  knowledge,  means  of  improvement,  riches,  and 
all  external  advantages.  And  as  there  are  not  any  two  men 
found,  of  exactly  like  shape  and  features  ;  so  it  is  probable  there 
are  not  any  two,  of  an  exactly  like  constitution,  temper,  and 
situation,  with  regard  to  the  goods  and  evils  of  life.  Yet,  not- 
withstanding these  uncertainties  and  varieties,  God  does  exercise 
a  natural  government  over  the  world  :  and  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  a  prudent  and  imprudent  institution  of  life,  with  regard  to  our 
health  and  our  affairs,  under  that  His  natural  government. 

(From  the  Analogy  of  Religion.) 


THE   PRACTICAL  RULE  OF   CONDUCT 

It  is  most  readily  acknowledged,  that  the  foregoing  treatise  is 
by  no  means  satisfactory  ;  very  far  indeed  from  it :  but  so  would 
any  natural  institution  of  life  appear,  if  reduced  into  a  system, 
together  with  its  evidence.  Leaving  religion  out  of  the  case, 
men  are  divided  in  their  opinions,  whether  our  pleasures  over- 
balance our  pains  :  and  whether  it  be,  or  be  not,  eligible  to  live 
in  this  world.  And  were  all  such  controversies  settled,  which 
perhaps,  in  speculation,  would  be  found  involved  in  great 
difficulties  ;  and  were  it  determined  upon  the  evidence  of  reason,  as 
nature  has  determined  it  to  our  hands,  that  life  is  to  be  preserved  : 
yet  still,  the  rules  which  God  has  been  pleased  to  afford  us,  for 
escaping  the  miseries  of  it,  and  obtaining  its  satisfactions,  the 
rules,  for  instance,  of  preserving  health,  and  recovering  it  when 
lost,  are  not  only  fallible  and  precarious,  but  very  far  from  being 
exact.  Nor  are  we  informed  by  nature,  in  future  contingencies 
and  accidents,  so  as  to  render  it  at  all  certain,  what  is  the  best 
method  of  managing  our  affairs.  What  will  be  the  success  of 
our  temporal  pursuits,  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word  success, 


BISHOP  BUTLER  75 


is  highly  doubtful.  And  what  will  be  the  success  of  them  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  word  ;  i.e.  what  happiness  or  enjoyment  we 
shall  obtain  by  them,  is  doubtful  in  a  much  higher  degree. 
Indeed  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  the  evidence,  with  which  we 
are  obliged  to  take  up,  in  the  daily  course  of  life,  is  scarce  to  be 
expressed.  Yet  men  do  not  throw  away  life  or  disregard  the 
interests  of  it,  upon  account  of  this  doubtfulness.  The  evidence 
of  religion  then  being  admitted  real,  those  who  object  against 
it,  as  not  satisfactory,  i.e.  as  not  being  what  they  wish  it,  plainly 
forget  the  very  condition  of  our  being :  for  satisfaction,  in 
this  sense,  does  not  belong  to  such  a  creature  as  man.  And, 
which  is  more  material,  they  forget  also  the  very  nature  of 
religion.  For,  religion  presupposes,  in  all  those  who  will  embrace 
it,  a  certain  degree  of  integrity  and  honesty  ;  which  it  was  in- 
tended to  try  whether  men  have  or  not,  and  to  exercise  in  such 
as  have  it,  in  order  to  its  improvement.  Religion  presupposes 
this  as  much,  and  in  the  same  sense,  as  speaking  to  a  man  pre- 
supposes he  understands  the  language  in  which  you  speak  ;  or 
as  warning  a  man  of  any  danger  presupposes  that  he  hath  such  a 
regard  to  himself,  as  that  he  will  endeavour  to  avoid  it.  And 
therefore  the  question  is  not  at  all.  Whether  the  evidence  of 
religion  be  satisfactory  ;  but  Whether  it  be,  in  reason,  sufficient 
to  prove  and  discipline  that  virtue,  which  it  presupposes.  Now 
the  evidence  of  it  is  fully  sufficient  for  all  those  purposes  of  proba- 
tion ;  how  far  soever  it  is  from  being  satisfactory,  as  to  the 
purposes  of  curiosity  or  any  other  :  and  indeed  it  answers  the 
purposes  of  the  former  in  several  respects,  which  it  would  not  do 
if  it  were  as  overbearing  as  is  required.  One  might  add  further ; 
that  whether  the  motives  or  the  evidence  for  any  course  of  action 
be  satisfactory,  meaning  here  by  that  word,  what  satisfies  a  man 
that  such  a  course  of  action  will  in  event  be  for  his  good  ;  this 
need  never  be,  and  I  think,  strictly  speaking,  never  is,  the 
practical  question  in  common  matters.  But  the  practical  question 
in  all  cases  is,  Whether  the  evidence  for  a  course  of  action  be 
such,  as,  taking  in  all  circumstances,  makes  the  faculty  within  us, 
which  is  the  guide  and  judge  of  conduct,  determine  that  course  of 
action  to  be  prudent.  Indeed,  satisfaction  that  it  will  be  for  our 
interest  or  happiness,  abundantly  determines  an  action  to  be 
prudent  :  but  evidence  almost  infinitely  lower  than  this  de- 
termines actions  to  be  so  too  ;  even  in  the  conduct  of  every  day. 

(From  the  Same.) 


76  ENGLISH  PKOSE 


THE   BURDEN   OF   MUCH  TALKING 

The  Wise  Man  observes,  that  there  is  a  time  to  speak  and  a 
time  to  keep  silence.  One  meets  with  people  in  the  world,  who 
seem  never  to  have  made  the  last  of  these  observations.  And 
yet  these  great  talkers  do  not  at  all  speak  from  their  having 
anything  to  say,  as  every  sentence  shows,  but  only  from  their 
inclination  to  be  talking.  Their  conversation  is  merely  an 
exercise  of  the  tongue  :  no  other  human  faculty  has  any  share  in 
it.  It  is  strange  these  persons  can  help  reflecting,  that  unless 
they  have  in  truth  a  superior  capacity,  and  are  in  an  extra- 
ordinary manner  furnished  for  conversation  ;  if  they  are  enter- 
taining, it  is  at  their  own  expense.  Is  it  possible,  that  it  should 
never  come  into  people's  thoughts  to  suspect,  whether  or  no  it  be 
to  their  advantage  to  show  so  very  much  of  themselves  ?  Oh 
that  you  would  altogether  hold  your  peace,  and  it  should  be 
your  wisdom.  Remember  likewise  there  are  persons  who  love 
fewer  words,  an  inoffensive  sort  of  people,  and  who  deserve  some 
regard,  though  of  too  still  and  composed  tempers  for  you.  Of 
this  number  was  the  son  of  Sirach  :  for  he  plainly  speaks  from 
experience,  when  he  says.  As  hills  of  sands  are  to  the  steps  of 
the  aged,  so  is  one  of  many  words  to  a  quiet  man.  But  one 
would  think  it  should  be  obvious  to  every  one,  that  when  they  are 
in  company  with  their  superiors  of  any  kind,  in  years,  knowledge, 
and  experience,  when  proper  and  useful  subjects  are  discoursed 
of,  which  they  cannot  bear  a  part  in  ;  that  these  are  times  for 
silence  :  when  they  should  learn  to  hear,  and  be  attentive  ;  at 
least  in  their  turn.  It  is  indeed  a  very  unhappy  way  these 
people  are  in  :  they  in.  a  manner  cut  themselves  out  from  all 
advantage  of  conversation,  except  that  of  being  entertained  with 
their  own  talk  :  their  business  in  coming  into  company  not  being 
at  all  to  be  informed,  to  hear,  to  learn  ;  but  to  display  them- 
selves ;  or  rather  to  exert  their  faculty,  and  talk  without  any 
design  at  all.  And  if  we  consider  conversation  as  an  entertain- 
ment, as  somewhat  to  unbend  the  mind  :  as  a  diversion  from  the 
cares,  the  business,  and  the  sorrows  of  life  ;  it  is  of  the  very 
nature  of  it,  that  the  discourse  be  mutual.  This  I  say,  is  implied 
in  the  very  notion  of  what  we  distinguish  by  conversation,   or 


BISHOP  BUTLER  77 


being  in  company.  Attention  to  the  continued  discourse  of  one 
alone  grows  more  painful  often,  than  the  cares  and  business  we 
come  to  be  diverted  from.  He  therefore  who  imposes  this  upon 
us  is  guilty  of  a  double  offence  ;  arbitrarily  enjoining  silence 
upon  all  the  rest,  and  likewise  obliging  them  to  this  painful 
attention. 

(From  Sermon  On  the  Government  of  the  Tongue.) 


LORD  CHESTERFIELD 


[Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  fourth  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  was  born  in  1694. 
He  entered  the  House  of  Commons  in  1715,  and  after  a  youth  which  he 
describes  as  absorbed  in  pedantry  until  liberated  by  his  initiation  into  fashion- 
able society,  he  devoted  much  industry  to  acquire  a  facile  oratorical  style,  and 
succeeded  in  gaining  a  high  reputation  both  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and, 
after  his  succession  to  the  peerage  in  1726,  in  the  House  of  Lords.  He  spent 
a  large  part  of  his  life  on  foreign  embassies  :  was  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland 
jn  1755.  and  Secretary  of  State  in  1746.  He  died  in  1773.  His  reputation 
in  his  lifetime  was  that  of  a  shrewd  man  of  the  world  and  a  cynical  wit. 
His  Miscellaneous  Works,  consisting  partly  of  contributions  to  the  periodicals 
of  the  day,  were  published  in  1777.  These  have  fallen  into  complete  oblivion. 
Posterity  has  chosen  instead  to  retain  as  a  living  classic  those  Letters  to  his 
Son,  which  were  addressed  to  his  natural  son,  Philip  Stanhope,  and  which 
present  a  perfect  picture  of  the  most  polite  cynicism  of  his  age — a  cynicism 
always  careful  to  conceal  with  some  ostentation  (if  the  expression  is  not  too 
bold)  such  goodness  of  heart  as  it  really  contained.  They  were  published  in 
1 774-] 

In  some  respects  Lord  Chesterfield  is  one  of  the  men  most  typical 
of  his  age.  With  high  natural  abilities,  born  to  fortune  and  posi- 
tion, introduced  before  he  had  reached  his  majority  into  the 
House  of  Commons,  with  all  the  opportunities  for  observation 
offered  by  long  service  on  foreign  embassies,  the  friend  or 
acquaintance  of  all  the  men  of  distinction  of  his  time,  he  yet  left 
no  mark  upon  history,  and  seemed  to  contemn  the  aims  of  ambi- 
tion or  the  possession  of  power  under  the  influence  of  an  over- 
mastering cynicism.  Conspicuous  success,  he  appears  to  have 
thought,  might  interfere  with  the  cynical  calm  at  which  he  aimed, 
as  much  as  conspicuous  failure.  He  would  identify  himself  closely 
with  no  party  ;  avoided  the  restraints  which  power  would  have 
brought  to  him  ;  and  above  all  shunned  any  ardent  belief,  or  the 
enthusiastic  support  of  any  cause.  To  some  slight  extent  he 
affected  the  character  of  a  literary  Maecenas  :  but  the  most  con- 
spicuous episode  of  his  life,  in  that  character,  is  the  collision  with 


8o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Johnson,  which  brought  to  him  an  unenviable  notoriety,  and  to 
us  a  rich  inheritance,  in  that  famous  letter  preserved  by  Boswell, 
which  marks  the  highest  triumph  of  dignified  sarcasm. 

Within  the  limits  which  he  imposed  upon  himself,  Chesterfield's 
political  and  diplomatic  career  is  not  without  importance.  His 
literary  essays  were  few,  and  were  such  as  might  be  expected  from 
a  man  who  laboured  under  the  impediment  of  self-consciousness, 
not  seldom  the  accompaniment  of  overstrained  cynicism.  But,  for 
us,  he  is  interesting  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  as  the  author  of  the 
Letters  to  his  Soil,  which  were  published  after  his  death.  Other 
letters  have  been  published  by  the  late  Lord  Carnarvon  ;  but 
although  they  show  different  moods,  they  do  not  materially  alter 
the  impression  made  by  the  unique  letters  to  his  son,  where  we 
have  Chesterfield's  theory  of  life  set  forth  with  reiterated  detail. 
These  letters  have  run  the  whole  gauntlet  of  every  sort  of  criticism, 
from  the  demure  expostulation  of  conventional  propriety  to  the  fierce 
outburst  of  Johnson's  half-personal  indignation,  "He  teaches  the 
morals  of  a  whore,  and  the  manners  of  a  dancing-master." 

In  these  letters  Chesterfield  gives  us  a  complete  picture  of 
himself  and  his  opinions.  In  politics  he  is  a  Whig,  repeating  the 
commonplaces  of  Whiggism  because  they  appear  to  him  to  be 
most  consistent  with  the  moderation  of  common  sense.  To  make 
a  boast  of  atheism  would  be  contrary  to  the  rules  of  good  breeding, 
and  he  therefore  indulges  his  absolute  contempt  for  religious 
principle  in  constantly  sneering  at  the  superstitions  of  Roman 
Catholicism.  Flagrant  immorality,  and  above  all  dishonourable 
conduct,  would  endanger  the  reputation  of  a  gentleman,  and  on 
that  account  they  are  to  be  avoided.  Industry,  attention,  com- 
petent knowledge — all  these  are  useful  because  they  train  us  to 
self-discipline,  and  strengthen  us  against  others  ;  but  we  must 
take  care  not  to  push  our  knowledge  to  the  length  of  pedantry, 
nor  to  let  it  overburden  us  for  playing  oiir  part  in  the  comedy  of 
life.  A  superficial  familiarity  with  the  arts  is  useful  to  a  fine 
gentleman  ;  but  any  technical  acquaintance  with  their  practice  is 
a  thing  only  to  be  despised.  Solid  acquirements  need  not  be 
neglected,  but  the  chief  and  ruling  aim  of  life  is  first  to  g'ain  that 
outer  armour  which  knowledge  of  the  world  gives,  and  then  to 
learn  how  to  wear  it.  To  this  end  all  other  objects — morality, 
literature,  the  sciences  and  the  arts,  are  alike  secondary  or  sub- 
servient. A  man  is  sufiiciently  moral  if  he  avoids  those  vices 
which   disgrace   a  gentleman,   or   interfere  with  his  dignity  and 


LORD  CHESTEKFIELD 


independence  ;  sufficiently  learned  if  he  knows  how  to  avoid  mis- 
takes, or  the  display  of  ignorance ;  sufficiently  furnished  with 
literature,  if  he  knows  how  to  choose  his  words  and  to  give  grace 
to  his  style  ;  sufficiently  imbued  with  science  and  art  if  he  knows 
how  to  give  a  superficial  appreciation  to  their  professional  repre- 
sentatives. 

It  is  a  work  of  supererogation  to  point  out  the  defects  of 
Chesterfield's  philosophy.  It  is,  of  course,  profoundly  immoral, 
profoundly  selfish,  profoundly  cynical.  In  literary  taste  he  is 
almost  as  open  to  criticism.  Shakespeare  had  scarcely  any  exist- 
ence for  him  ;  Milton,  he  avows,  is  no  favourite  ;  and  in  Dante 
he  finds  nothing  but  laborious  and  misty  obscurity.  These  are 
failures  of  taste  that  he  on  the  very  surface.  The  real  defect, 
and  that  of  which  Chesterfield  would  most  have  resented  the 
imputation,  is  the  absolute  weight  of  conventionality  under  which 
he  is  borne  down.  His  chief  aim  was  the  attainment  of  a  sort  of 
cynical  independence  of  life  :  as  a  fact  he  tied  himself  hand  and 
foot  in  a  very  network  of  conventionality  and  routine. 

But  on  the  other  hand  there  is  much  that  extorts  our  respect. 
It  is  to  be  observed  that  the  inculcation  of  solid  qualities  bears  a 
much  larger  part  in  the  earlier  letters,  and  that  it  is  only  as 
advancing  years  show  how  far  his  son  fell  short  in  the  graces  of 
life,  that  the  letters  dwell  chiefly  on  the  necessity  for  these.  He 
detests  cant,  just  as  he  detests  casuistical  quibbles.  He  never 
indulges,  consciously,  in  any  personal  vanity.  He  allows  no  mis- 
apprehension to  grow  up  with  regard  to  his  motives.  He  never 
forgets  the  duty  of  a  stoical  self-control.  Throughout  all  these 
letters  we  see  the  indomitable  bravery  of  a  man  who  may  be  pur- 
suing; a  false  aim,  but  who  lets  no  disappointment,  no  disillusion, 
no  failure,  daunt  his  spirits  or  ruffle  the  imperturbable  front 
_  which  he  wears  to  the  world.  In  his  last  years,  and  in  some  later 
letters,  the  cynicism  failed  him,  disappointment  broke  him,  ill- 
health  conquered  his  spirit  ;  but  nothing  of  this  is  allowed  to 
appear  in  these  letters,  written  over  a  course  of  thirty  years  to  a  son 
who  disappointed  all  his  hopes,  and  failed  utterly  to  pay  that 
sacrifice  to  the  Graces  for  which  his  father  so  passionately  pleaded. 
But  the  closing  melancholy  only  shows  that  Chesterfield  was 
human.  If  we  look  to  the  famous  letters  alone — and  it  is  these 
that  have  kept  his  name  alive — there  is  no  breach  in  the  armour 
of  cynical,  but  withal  resolute,  Stoicism. 

If  his    literary   taste   gave   him    no   sympathy   with   what   was 

VOL.  IV  G 


82  ENGLISH  PROSE 


highest  in  literary  genius,  it  yet  preserved  him  from  all  false  or 
spurious  fashions,  and  made  him  representative  of  a  style  which 
was  dignified,  correct,  and  chaste.  It  was  a  part  of  his  whole 
system  that  the  form  was  more  important  than  the  substance,  and 
he  carried  it  out  rigidly  in  his  literary  style.  Not  what  was  to  be 
said,  but  how  to  say  it,  was  his  chief  thought  ;  and  no  author, 
intent  upon  polishing  his  diction  for  an  exacting  public,  could 
have  spent  more  pains  upon  the  work  than  Chesterfield  did  upon 
the  turning  of  every  line  that  went  to  accomplish  this  long  penance 
of  epistles  destined  to  fall  upon  such  ungenial  soil.  From  all 
accounts  the  son  was  not  an  unworthy  man  ;  but  he  was  absolutely 
unfitted  to  fulfil  his  Mentor's  aspirations  in  the  achievement  of  the 
graces  of  a  man  of  the  world.  The  correspondence  was  broken 
off  only  by  the  son's  death  at  the  age  of  thirty-five.  The  failure 
of  the  long  efforts  was  tragic  ;  but  no  word  of  complaint  was 
drawn  from  the  courageous  cynic.  Only  in  the  weakness  of  old 
age,  deafness,  and  decrepitude,  did  the  dreariness  of  despair  creep 
over  him. 

H.  Craik. 


MANNERS   MAKYTH   MAN 

Spa,  zyhjiily  1741. 
Dear  Boy — I  have  often  told  you  in  my  former  letters  (and  it  is 
most  certainly  true)  that  the  strictest  and  most  scrupulous  honour 
and  virtue  can  alone  make  you  esteemed  and  valued  by  mankind  ; 
that  parts  and  learning  can  alone  make  you  admired  and 
celebrated  by  them  ;  but  that  the  possession  of  lesser  talents  was 
most  absolutely  necessary  towards  making  you  liked,  beloved, 
and  sought  after  in  private  life.  Of  these  lesser  talents  good 
breeding  is  the  principal  and  most  necessary  one,  not  only  as  it 
is  very  important  in  itself,  but  as  it  adds  great  lustre  to  the  more 
solid  advantages  both  of  the  heart  and  the  mind.  I  have  often 
touched  upon  good  breeding  to  you  before  ;  so  that  this  letter 
shall  be  upon  the  next  necessary  qualification  to  it,  which  is  a 
genteel,  easy  manner,  and  carriage,  wholly  free  from  those  odd 
tricks,  ill  habits,  and  awkwardnesses,  which  even  many  very 
worthy  and  sensible  people  have  in  their  behaviour.  However 
trifling  a  genteel  manner  may  sound,  it  is  of  very  great  conse- 
quence towards  pleasing  in  private  life,  especially  the  women  ; 
which,  one  time  or  other,  you  will  think  worth  pleasing ;  and  I 
have  known  many  a  man  from  his  awkwardness,  give  people 
such  a  dislike  of  him  at  first,  that  all  his  merit  could  not  get  the 
better  of  it  afterwards.  Whereas  a  genteel  manner  prepossesses 
people  in  your  favour,  bends  them  towards  you,  and  makes  them 
wish  to  like  you.  Awkwardness  can  proceed  from  two  causes  ; 
either  from  not  having  kept  good  company,  or  from  not  having 
attended  to  it.  As  for  your  keeping  good  company,  I  will  take 
care  of  that  ;  do  you  take  care  to  observe  their  ways  and  manners, 
and  to  form  your  own  upon  them.  Attention  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  this,  as  indeed  it  is  for  everything  else  ;  and  a  man 
without  attention  is  not  fit  to  live  in  the  world.  When  an 
awkward  fellow  first  comes  into  the  room,  it  is  highly  probable, 


84  ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  his  sword  gets  between  his  legs,  and  throws  him  down,  or 
makes  him  stumble  at  least ;  when  he  has  recovered  this 
accident,  he  goes  and  places  himself  in  the  very  place  of  the 
whole  room  where  he  should  not  ;  then  he  soon  lets  his  hat  fall 
down,  and,  in  taking  it  up  again,  throws  down  his  cane ;  in 
recovering  his  cane,  his  hat  falls  a  second  time  ;  so  that  he  is  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  is  in  order  again.  If  he  drinks  tea 
or  coffee,  he  certainly  scalds  his  mouth,  and  lets  either  the  cup 
or  the  saucer  fall,  and  spills  the  tea  or  coffee  in  his  breeches. 
At  dinner,  his  awkwardness  distinguishes  itself  particularly,  as  he 
has  more  to  do :  there  he  holds  his  knife,  fork,  and  spoon 
differently  from  other  people  ;  eats  with  his  knife  to  the  great 
danger  of  his  mouth,  picks  his  teeth  with  his  fork,  and  puts  his 
spoon,  which  has  been  in  his  throat  twenty  times,  into  the  dishes 
again.  If  he  is  to  carve,  he  can  never  hit  the  joint ;  but,  in  his 
vain  efforts  to  cut  through  the  bone,  scatters  the  sauce  in  every- 
body's face.  He  generally  daubs  himself  with  soup  and  grease, 
though  his  napkin  is  commonly  stuck  through  a  button-hole  and 
tickles  his  chin.  When  he  drinks,  he  infallibly  coughs  in  his 
glass,  and  besprinkles  the  company.  Besides  all  this,  he  has 
strange  tricks  and  gestures ;  such  as  snuffing  up  his  nose, 
making  faces,  putting  his  fingers  in  his  nose,  or  blowing  it  and 
looking  aftenvards  in  his  handkerchief,  so  as  to  make  the 
company  sick.  His  hands  are  troublesome  to  him,  when  he  has 
not  something  in  them,  and  he  docs  not  know  where  to  put 
them  ;  but  they  are  in  perpetual  motion  between  his  bosom  and 
his  breeches  :  he  does  not  wear  his  clothes,  and,  in  short,  does 
nothing,  like  other  people.  All  this,  I  own,  is  not  in  any  degree 
criminal  ;  but  it  is  highly  disagreeable  and  ridiculous  in  company, 
and  ought  most  carefully  to  be  avoided  by  whoever  desires  to 
please. 

From  this  account  of  what  you  should  not  do,  you  may  easily 
judge  of  what  you  should  do  ;  and  a  due  attention  to  the  manners 
of  people  of  fashion,  and  who  have  seen  the  world,  will  make  it 
habitual  and  familiar  to  you. 

There  is  likewise  an  awkwardness  of  expression  and  words, 
most  carefully  to  be  avoided  ;  such  as  false  English,  bad 
pronunciation,  old  sayings,  and  common  proverbs  ;  which  are  so 
many  proofs  of  having  kept  bad  and  low  company.  For 
example  ;  if,  instead  of  saying  that  tastes  are  different,  and  that 
every  man  has  his  own  peculiar  one,  you  should  let  off  a  proverb, 


LORD  CHESTERFIELD  85 

and  say,  That  what  is  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison  ; 
or  else,  Every  one  as  they  Hke,  as  the  good  man  said  when  he 
kissed  his  cow  ;  everybody  would  be  persuaded  that  you  had 
never  kept  company  with  anybody  above  footmen  and  house- 
maids. 

Attention  will  do  all  this  ;  and  without  attention  nothing  is  to 
be  done  ;  want  of  attention,  which  is  really  want  of  thought,  is 
either  folly  or  madness.  You  should  not  only  have  attention  to 
everything,  but  a  quickness  of  attention,  so  as  to  observe,  at 
once,  all  the  people  in  the  room  ;  their  motions,  their  looks,  and 
their  words  ;  and  yet  without  staring  at  them,  and  seeming  to  l)e 
an  observer.  This  quick  and  unobserved  observation  is  of 
infinite  advantage  in  life,  and  is  to  be  acquired  with  care  ;  and, 
on  the  contrary,  what  is  called  absence,  which  is  a  thoughtless- 
ness, and  want  of  attention  about  what  is  doing,  makes  a  man  so 
like  either  a  fool  or  a  madman,  that,  for  my  part,  I  see  no  real 
difference.  A  fool  never  has  thought ;  a  madman  has  lost  it  ; 
and  an  absent  man  is,  for  the  time,  without  it. 

Adieu !  Direct  your  next  to  me,  Chez  Afonsicur  C/iabcrf, 
Banqiiier,  a  Paris j  and  take  care  I  find  the  improvements  I 
expect,  at  my  return. 

(From  Lc/icrs  to  his  So??.) 


THE   FALSEHOOD   OF  COMMONPLACES 

London,  May  10///,  174S. 
Dear  Boy — I  reckon  that  this  letter  will  find  you  just  returned 
from  Dresden,  where  you  have  made  your  first  Court  Ca)'ava?u?c. 
What  inclination  for  courts  this  taste  of  them  may  have  given 
you,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  this  I  think  myself  sure  of,  from  your 
good  sense,  that,  in  leaving  Dresden,  you  have  left  dissipation 
too  ;  and  have  resumed  at  Leipzig  that  application,  which,  if  you 
like  courts,  can  alone  enable  you  to  make  a  good  figure  at  them. 
A  mere  courtier,  without  parts  or  knowledge,  is  the  most 
frivolous  and  contemptible  of  beings  ;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
man  of  parts  and  knowledge,  who  acquires  the  easy  and  noble 
manners  of  a  court,  is  the  most  perfect.  It  is  a  trite,  common- 
place observation  that  courts  arc  seats  of  falsehood  and  dissimu- 
lation.       That,    like    many,     \    might    say    most,    commonplace 


86  ENGLISH  PROSE 


observations,  is  false.  Falsehood  and  dissimulation  are  certainly 
to  be  found  at  courts  ;  but  where  are  they  not  to  be  found  ? 
Cottages  have  them,  as  well  as  courts  ;  only  with  worse  manners. 
A  couple  of  neighbouring  farmers,  in  a  village,  will  contrive  and 
practice  as  many  tricks  to  overreach  each  other  at  the  next 
market,  or  to  supplant  each  other  in  the  favour  of  the  squire,  as 
any  two  courtiers  can  do  to  supplant  each  other  in  the  favour  of 
their  prince.  Whatever  poets  may  write,  or  fools  believe,  of 
rural  innocence  and  truth,  and  of  the  perfidy  of  courts,  this  is 
most  undoubtedly  true,  that  shepherds  and  ministers  are  both 
men  ;  their  nature  and  passions  the  same,  the  modes  of  them 
only  different. 

Having  mentioned  commonplace  observations,  I  will  particu- 
larly caution  you  against  either  using,  believing,  or  approving  them. 
They  are  the  common  topics  of  witlings  and  coxcombs  ;  those 
who  really  have  wit,  have  the  utmost  contempt  for  them,  and 
scorn  even  to  laugh  at  the  pert  things  that  those  would-be  wits 
say  upon  such  subjects. 

Religion  is  one  of  their  favourite  topics  ;  it  is  all  priestcraft  ; 
and  an  invention  carried  on  by  priests  of  all  religions,  for  their 
own  power  and  profit ;  from  this  absurd  and  false  principle  flow  the 
commonplace  insipid  jokes  and  insults  upon  the  clergy.  With 
these  people  every  priest  of  every  religion  is  either  a  public  or  a 
concealed  unbeliever,  drunkard,  and  whoremaster ;  whereas  I 
conceive  that  priests  are  extremely  like  other  men,  and  neither 
the  better  nor  the  worse  for  wearing  a  gown  or  a  surplice  ;  but, 
if  they  are  different  from  other  people,  probably  it  is  rather  on 
the  side  of  religion  and  morality,  or  at  least  decency,  from  their 
education  and  manner  of  life. 

Another  common  topic  for  false  wit,  and  cold  raillery  is 
matrimony.  Every  man  and  his  wife  hate  each  other  cordially, 
whatever  they  may  pretend,  in  public,  to  the  contrary.  The 
husband  certainly  wishes  his  wife  at  the  devil,  and  the  wife 
certainly  cuckolds  her  husband.  Whereas  I  presume  that  men 
and  their  wives  neither  love  nor  hate  each  other  the  more  upon 
account  of  the  form  of  matrimony,  which  has  been  said  over 
them.  The  cohabitation  indeed,  which  is  the  consequence  of 
matrimony,  makes  them  either  love  or  hate  more,  accordingly  as 
they  respectively  deserve  it ;  but  that  would  be  exactly  the  same 
between  any  man  and  woman  who  lived  together  without  being 
married. 


LORD  CHESTERFIELD  87 

These  and  many  other  commonplace  reflections  upon  nations, 
or  professions,  in  general  (which  are  at  least  as  often  false  as 
true)  are  the  poor  refuge  of  people  who  have  neither  wit  nor 
invention  of  their  own,  but  endeavour  to  shine  in  company  by 
secondhand  finery.  I  always  put  these  pert  jackanapes  out  of 
countenance,  by  looking  extremely  grave,  when  they  expect  that 
I  should  laugh  at  their  pleasantries  ;  and  by  saying  well,  cmd  so; 
as  if  they  had  not  done,  and  that  the  sting  had  still  to  come. 
This  disconcerts  them,  as  they  have  no  resources  in  themselves, 
and  have  but  one  set  of  jokes  to  live  upon.  Men  of  parts  are 
not  reduced  to  these  shifts,  and  have  the  utmost  contempt  for 
them  :  they  find  proper  subjects  enough  for  either  useful  or  lively 
conversations  ;  they  can  be  witty  without  satire  or  commonplace 
and  serious  without  being  dull. 

(P^rom  the  Same.) 


A  GOOD  AND  A   BAD   STYLE 

I  HAVE  written  to  you  so  often  of  late  upon  good  breeding, 
address,  les  ma7iieres  limties,  the  graces,  etc.  that  I  shall  confine 
this  letter  to  another  subject,  pretty  near  akin  to  them,  and  which, 
I  am  sure,  you  are  full  as  deficient  in  ;   I  mean,  style. 

Style  is  the  dress  of  thoughts  ;  and  let  them  be  ever  so  just,  . 
if  your  style  is  homely,  coarse,  and  vulgar,  they  will  appear  to  as 
much  disadvantage,  and  be  as  ill  received  as  your  person,  though 
ever  so  well  proportioned,  would,  if  dressed  in  rags,  dirt,  and 
tatters.  It  is  not  every  understanding  that  can  judge  of  matter  ; 
but  every  ear  can  and  does  judge  more  or  less  of  style  ;  and  were 
I  either  to  speak  or  write  to  the  public,  I  should  prefer  moderate 
matter,  adorned  with  all  the  beauties  and  elegancies  of  style,  to 
the  strongest  matter  in  the  world,  ill-worded  and  ill-delivered. 
Your  business  is  Negotiation  abroad  and  Oratory  in  the  House 
of  Commons  at  home.  What  figure  can  you  make  in  either  case 
if  your  style  be  inelegant,  I  do  not  say  bad  ?  I  imagine  yourself 
writing  an  office-letter  to  a  Secretary  of  State,  which  letter  is  to 
be  read  by  the  whole  Cabinet  Council,  and  very  possibly  after- 
wards laid  before  Parliament  ;  any  one  barbarism,  solecism,  or 
vulgarism  in  it  would,  in  a  very  few  days,  circulate  through  the 
whole  kingdom  to  your  disgrace  and  ridicule.      For  instance  ;   I 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


will  suppose  you  had  written  the  following  letter  from  the  Hague, 
to  the  Secretary  of  State  at  London  ;  and  leave  you  to  suppose 
the  consequences  of  it. 

My  Lord — I  /?a<f  last  night,  the  honour  of  your  Lordship's  letter 
of  the  24th ;  and  will  set  about  doing  the  orders  contained 
therein  ;  and  if  so  be  that  I  can  get  that  affair  done  by  the  next 
post,  I  will  not  {sW  for  to  give  your  Lordship  an  account  of  it  by 
next  post.  I  have  told  the  French  Minister,  as  how,  that  if  i\\a.\. 
affair  be  not  soon  concluded,  your  Lordship  would  think  it  all 
long  of  him;  and  that  he  must  have  neglected  y^ir /^  have  wrote 
to  his  Court  about  it.  I  must  beg  leave  to  put  your  Lordship  in 
mind,  as  how,  that  I  am  now  full  three  quarters  in  arrear ;  and 
if  so  be  that  I  do  not  very  soon  receive  at  least  one  half-year,  I 
shall  cut  a  very  bad  figure ;  for  this  here  place  is  very  dear.  I 
shall  be  vastly  beholden  to  your  Lordship  for  that  there  mark  of 
your  favour  ;  and  so  I  rest,  or  remain,  Your,  etc. 

You  will  tell  me,  possibly  that  this  is  a  caricatura  of  an  illiberal 
and  inelegant  style  ;  I  will  admit  it  :  but  assure  you,  at  the  same 
time,  that  a  despatch  with  less  than  half  these  faults  would  blow 
you  up  for  ever.  It  is  by  no  means  sufficient  to  be  free  from 
faults  in  speaking  and  writing  ;  you  must  do  both  correctly  and 
elegantly.  In  faults  of  this  kind,  it  is  not  ille  optimus  qui 
minimis  urgetur;  but  he  is  unpardonable  that  has  any  at  all, 
because  it  is  his  own  fault :  he  need  only  attend  to,  observe,  and 
imitate  the  best  authors. 

It  is  a  very  true  saying,  that  a  man  must  be  born  a  poet,  but 
that  he  may  make  himself  an  orator  ;  and  the  very  first  principle  of 
an  orator  is,  to  speak  his  own  language,  particularly,  with  the 
utmost  purity  and  elegance.  A  man  will  be  forgiven,  even  great 
errors,  in  a  foreign  language  ;  but  in  his  own  even  the  least  slips 
are  justly  laid  hold  of  and  ridiculed. 

A  person  of  the  House  of  Commons,  speaking  two  years  ago 
upon  naval  affairs,  asserted  that  we  had  then  the  finest  navy 
upon  the  face  of  the  ycarth.  This  happy  mixture  of  blunder  and 
vulgarism,  you  may  easily  imagine,  was  matter  of  immediate 
ridicule  ;  but  I  can  assure  you  that  it  continues  so  still,  and  will 
be  remembered  as  long  as  he  lives  and  speaks.  Another,  speak- 
ing in  defence  of  a  gentleman  upon  whom  a  censure  was  moved, 
happily  said  that  he  thought  that  gentleman  was  more  liable  to 
be  thanked  and  rewarded,  than  censured.  You  know,  I  presume, 
that  liable  can  never  be  used  in  a  good  sense. 


LORD  CHESTERFIELD  89 

You  have  with  you  three  or  four  of  the  best  English  authors, 
Dryden,  Atterbury,  and  Swift  ;  read  them  with  the  utmost  care, 
and  with  a  particular  view  to  their  language,  and  they  may 
possibly  correct  that  curious  infelicity  of  diction,  which  you 
acquired  at  Westminster.  Mr.  Harte  excepted,  I  will  admit 
that  you  have  met  with  very  few  English  abroad  who  could 
improve  your  style  ;  and  with  many,  I  dare  say,  who  speak  as 
ill  as  yourself,  and  it  may  be  worse  ;  you  must  therefore  take  the 
more  pains,  and  consult  your  authors  and  Mr.  Harte  the  more. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  attentive  the  Romans  and  Greeks, 
particularly  the  Athenians  were  to  this  object.  It  is  also  a  study 
among  the  Italians  and  the  French,  witness  their  respective 
Academies  and  Dictionaries,  for  improving  and  fixing  their 
languages.  To  our  shame  be  it  spoken,  it  is  less  attended  to 
here  than  in  any  polite  country  ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  attend  to  it ;  on  the  contrary  it  will  distinguish  you 
the  more.  Cicero  says,  very  truly,  that  it  is  glorious  to  excel 
other  men  in  that  very  article,  in  which  men  excel  brutes,  speech. 

Constant  experience  has  shown  me,  that  great  purity  and 
elegance  of  style,  with  a  graceful  elocution,  cover  a  multitude  of 
faults  in  either  a  speaker  or  a  writer.  For  my  own  part,  I  confess 
(and  I  believe  inost  people  are  of  my  mind)  that  if  a  speaker 
should  ungracefully  mutter  or  stammer  out  to  me  the  sense  of  an 
angel,  deformed  by  barbarisms  and  solecisms,  or  larded  with 
vulgarisms,  he  should  never  speak  to  me  a  second  time,  if  I  could 
help  it.  Gain  the  heart,  or  you  gain  nothing- ;  the  eyes  and  the 
ears  are  the  only,  road  to  the  heart.  Merit  and  knowledge  will 
not  gain  hearts,  though  they  will  secure  them  when  gained. 
Pray  have  that  truth  ever  in  your  mind.  Engage  the  eyes  by 
your  address,  air,  and  motions  ;  sooth  the  ears  by  the  elegance 
and  harmony  of  your  diction  ;  the  heart  will  certainly  follow, 
and  the  whole  man  or  woman  will  as  certainly  follow  the  heart.  I 
must  repeat  it  to  you  over  and  over  again,  that  with  all  the  know- 
ledge which  you  may  have  at  present  or  hereafter  acquire,  and  with 
all  the  merit  that  ever  man  had,  if  you  have  not  a  graceful  address, 
liberal  and  engaging  manners,  a  prepossessing  air,  and  a  good 
degree  of  eloquence  in  speaking  and  writing,  you  will  be  nobody  ; 
but  will  have  the  daily  mortification  of  seeing  people,  with  not 
one-tenth  part  of  your  merit  or  knowledge,  get  the  start  of  you 
and  disgrace  you  both  in  company  and  in  business. 

(From  the  Same.) 


go  ENGLISH  PROSE 


VOLTAIRE 

I  consider  you  now  as  at  the  Court  of  Augustus,  where,  if  ever 
the  desire  of  pleasing  animated  you,  it  must  make  you  exert  all 
the  means  of  doing  it.  You  will  see  there,  full  as  well,  I  dare  say 
as  Horace  did  at  Rome,  how  states  are  defended  by  arms, 
adorned  by  manners,  and  improved  by  laws.  Nay,  you  have  an 
Horace  there,  as  well  as  an  Augustus  ;  I  need  not  name  Voltaire 
qui  nil  violititr  i?ieptc,  as  Horace  himself  said  of  another  poet. 
I  have  lately  read  over  all  his  works  that  are  published,  though  I 
had  read  them  more  than  once  before.  I  was  induced  to  this  by 
his  Sicde  dc  Louis  XIV.  which  I  have  read  but  four  times.  In 
reading  over  all  his  works,  with  more  attention  I  suppose  than 
before,  my  former  admiration  of  him  is,  I  own,  turned  into  aston- 
ishment. There  is  no  one  kind  of  writing  in  which  he  has  not 
excelled.  You  are  so  severe  a  classic,  that  I  question  whether  you 
will  allow  me  to  call  his  Hoiriadc  an  epic  poem,  for  want  of  the 
proper  number  of  gods,  devils,  witches,  and  other  absurdities, 
requisite  for  the  machinery  ;  which  machinery  is  (it  seems) 
necessary  to  constitute  the  Epopee.  But  whether  you  do  or  not, 
I  will  declare  (though  possibly  to  my  own  shame)  that  I  never 
read  an  epic  poem  with  near  so  niuch  pleasure.  I  am  grown  old, 
and  have  possibly  lost  a  great  deal  of  that  fire,  which  formerly 
made  me  love  fire  in  others  at  any  rate,  and  however  attended 
with  smoke  ;  but  now  I  must  have  all  sense,  and  cannot,  for  the 
sake  of  five  righteous  lines,  forgive  a  thousand  absurd  ones. 

In  this  disposition  of  mind,  judge  whether  I  can  read  all 
Homer  through  tout  de  suite.  I  admire  his  beauties  ;  but,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  when  he  slumbers  I  sleep.  Virgil  I  confess  is  all 
sense,  and  therefore  I  like  him  better  than  his  model ;  but  he  is 
often  languid,  especially  in  his  five  or  six  last  books,  during  which 
I  am  obliged  to  take  a  good  deal  of  snufif.  Besides  I  profess  my- 
self an  ally  of  Turnus's  against  the  pious  yEneas,  who,  like  many 
soi-disant  pious  people,  does  the  most  flagrant  injustice  and  vio- 
lence, in  order  to  execute  what  they  impudently  call  the  will  of 
Heaven.  But  what  will  you  say,  when  I  tell  you  truly,  that  I 
cannot  possibly  read  our  countryman  Milton  through.  I  acknow- 
ledge him  to  have  some  most  sublime  passages,  some  prodigious 
flashes  of  light  ;  but  then  you  must  acknowledge  that  light  is 
often   followed   by  darkness  7'isible,   to  use    his  own    expression. 


LORD  CHESTERFIELD  91 

Besides,  not  having  the  honour  to  be  acquainted  with  any  of  the 
parties  in  his  poem,  except  the  Man  and  the  Woman,  the  charac- 
ters and  speeches  of  a  dozen  or  two  of  angels  and  of  as  many 
devils  are  as  much  above  my  reach  as  my  entertainment. 
Keep  this  secret  for  me,  for  if  it  should  be  known,  I  should  be 
abused  by  every  tasteless  pedant  and  every  solid  divine  in 
England. 

Whatever  I  have  said  to  the  disadvantage  of  these  three  poems, 
holds  much  stronger  against  Tasso's  Gicrusaletnme :  it  is  true  he 
has  very  fine  and  glaring  rays  of  poetry  ;  but  then  they  are  only 
meteors,  they  dazzle,  then  disappear,  and  are  succeeded  by  false 
thoughts,  poor  concetti,  and  absurd  impossibilities  :  witness  the 
Fish  and  the  Parrot  extravag'ances,  unworthy  of  an  heroic  poem, 
and  would  much  better  become  Ariosto,  who  professes  le 
coglionerie. 

I  have  never  read  the  Lusiade  of  Camoens  except  in  a  prose 
translation,  consequently  I  have  never  read  it  at  all,  so  shall  say 
nothing  of  it ;  but  the  Henriade  is  all  sense  from  beginning  to  end, 
often  adorned  by  the  justest  and  liveliest  reflections,  the  most 
beautiful  descriptions,  the  noblest  images,  and  the  sublimest 
sentiments  ;  not  to  mention  the  harmony  of  the  verse,  in  which 
Voltaire  undoubtedly  exceeds  all  the  French  poets  ;  should  you 
insist  upon  an  exception  in  favour  of  Racine,  I  must  insist,  on  my 
part,  that  he  at  least  equals  him.  What  hero  ever  interested 
more  than  Henry  the  Fourth,  who,  according  to  the  rules  of  epic 
poetry,  carries  on  one  great  and  long  action,  and  succeeds  in  it  at 
last  ?  What  description  ever  excited  more  horror  than  those, 
first  of  the  massacre,  then  of  the  famine,  at  Paris  ?  Was  love 
ever  painted  with  more  truth  and  morbidezza  than  in  the  ninth 
book  ?  Not  better,  in  my  mind,  even  in  the  fourth  of  Virgil. 
Upon  the  whole,  with  all  your  classical  rigour,  if  you  will  but 
suppose  St.  Louis  a  god,  a  devil,  or  a  witch,  and  that  he  appears 
in  person,  and  not  in  a  dream,  the  Henriade  will  be  an  epic  poem, 
according  to  the  strictest  statute  laws  of  the  Epopee ;  but  in  my 
Court  of  Equity  it  is  one  as  it  is. 

(From  the  Same.) 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


[William  Warburton,  the  son  of  the  town-clerk  of  Newark,  was  born 
Dec.  24,  1698.  He  was  educated  at  the  Grammar-schools  of  Oakham  and 
Newark,  but  did  not  proceed  to  the  University,  and  at  sixteen  entered  an 
attorney's  office.  In  private  however  he  studied  with  great  diligence,  and  at 
twenty-five  was  admitted  to  orders  in  the  Church  of  England.  His  first 
work,  An  Allia?ice  between  Church  and  State  (1736),  attracted  considerable 
attention,  but  it  was  not  until  the  publication  of  his  great  book,  The  Divine 
Legation  of  Moses  (Books  i.  -iii. ,  1738  ;  iv.-vi. ,  1740)  that  his  native  powers  and 
the  extensive  learning  he  had  acquired  were  accorded  full  recognition.  This 
is  a  very  remarkable,  and  in  many  respects  a  very  able  work,  but  without  any 
real  or  enduring  value,  and  aptly  described  by  Gibbon  as  "a  monument 
already  crumbling  in  the  dust  of  the  vigour  and  weakness  of  the  human 
mind."  One  of  the  excursions,  with  which  it  abounds,  into  all  manner  of  side 
issues,  afterwards  drew  forth  an  early  work  of  Gibbon,  Critical  Obsovations  on 
the  Sixth  Book  0/  the  ALneid  (1770).  In  1739  Warburton  replied  to  an 
attack  made  upon  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  as  irreligious  by  Crousaz,  a  Swiss 
divine,  and  the  defence  won  for  him  the  gratitude  and  life-long  friendship  of 
the  poet,  who  introduced  him  to  many  of  his  own  powerful  friends,  and  at 
death  left  him  his  literary  executor — a  bequest  valued  by  Johnson  at  ^4000. 
Warburton  married  Gertrude  Tucker,  a  niece  of  Ralph  Allen,  in  174S,  and 
his  preferment  was  rapid — Preacher  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  1746  ;  Prebendary  of 
Gloucester,  1753  ;  King's  Chaplain,  1754  ;  Dean  of  Bristol,  1757  ;  and  on 
the  nomination  of  Pitt,  Allen's  strong  friend.  Bishop  of  Gloucester,  1759. 
His  life  was  a  series  of  fierce  debates,  not  only  with  his  natural  enemies,  the 
Deists  and  Freethinkers,  but  also  with  theologians  whose  tenets  at  all  differed 
from  his  own.  Hume,  Lowth,  Voltaire,  Jortin,  Wesley  were  each  in  turn 
the  object  of  his  controversial  fury.  Beside  the  works  above  mentioned  the 
most  noticeable  of  Warburton's  writings  are  Julian  (1750),  The  Principles  of 
Natural  and  Revealed  Religion  (3  vols.  1753-67),  and  The  Doctrine  of  Grace 
(1762),  an  attack  upon  Wesley.  Warburton  deviated  from  polemics  into 
literary  criticism  only  to  produce  the  worst  Shakespeare  commentary  ever 
published.      He  died  in  1779.] 

To  take  by  storm  the  Temple  of  Fame  seems  to  have  been  the 
vahant  resolve  of  the  once -renowned  author  of  TJic  Divittc 
Lcgait07t  of  Moses.  He  flung  its  warders  a  loud  defiant 
suinmons  to  surrender,  and  thundered  at  its  doors.      Had  violence 


94  ENGLISH  PROSE 


sufficed  for  the  achievement,  so  fierce  and  arrogant  a  knight  of  the 
pen  would  assuredly  have  added  enduring  reputation  to  his 
worldly  success  ;  but  though  he  proved  himself  an  effective  soldier 
in  the  controversial  campaigns  of  his  own  day,  it  was  inevitable 
that  the  judgment  of  time  should  go  in  his  disfavour.  The 
sword  and  lance  of  Warburton's  mental  equipment,  however 
fitted  to  put  an  adversary  to  silence,  were  powerless  to  overawe 
"  the  incorruptible  Areopagus  of  posterity."  Churchman  as  he 
was,  and  in  the  end  prelate,  the  weapons  of  his  warfare  were  not 
spiritual,  nor  the  virtues  of  his  character  and  temper  the  dis- 
tinctive Christian  graces.  But  Warburton  was  not  all  churlish 
priest, — "  He  praised  me,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "  when  praise 
was  of  value  to  me  " — and  an  estimate  of  the  man  cannot  be 
separated  from  an  estimate  of  his  age.  It  was  an  age  in  which 
men  proved  their  doctrines  sound  by  apostolic  blows  and  knocks, 
identified  opinions  with  the  individuals  who  professed  them,  and 
regarded  truth  as  a  kind  of  entity  with  a  sharply  outlined 
objective  existence,  a  species  of  personal  property,  the  rights  to 
whose  sole  possessorship  ought  pro^Derly  to  be  preferred  and 
argued  by  claimants,  after  the  procedure  of  a  court  of  law.  Two 
camps  divided  the  thinking  England  into  which  Warburton  was 
born.  The  fruitless  struggle  between  theologian  and  deist, 
which  threatened  to  absorb  the  entire  mental  life  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  enlisted,  only  to  squander  in  barren  logomachies,  the 
powers  of  so  many  of  the  best  minds,  offered  a  field  of  exercise 
thoroughly  congenial  to  his  nature,  and  he  entered  upon  it  with 
zeal  indefatigable,  and  matchless  insolence  of  temper.  It  must 
be  admitted  that  Warburton  had  reasons  for  his  assurance. 
Among-  the  debaters,  his  contemporaries,  he  takes,  if  not  the  first 
place,  at  least  a  place  in  the  very  first  rank.  But  no  writings 
have  so  swift  a  foot  on  the  road  to  oblivion  as  books  of  contro- 
versy, and  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  his  works  occupy  noble 
room  in  the  catalogues  of  our  great  libraries,  and  that  no  reader 
can  fail  to  recognise  the  immense  strength  of  the  personality  that 
lay  behind  them,  they  can  scarcely  be  said  to  belong  to  literature 
proper  ;  and  only  the  curious  student  of  the  outworn  methods  of 
theological  debate  will  care  to  clear  away  the  dust  from  bulky 
volumes,  at  once  so  exclusively  polemical  and  so  recklessly 
unscientific.  In  defence  of  his  opinions,  Warburton  was  an 
opponent  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  his  enthusiasm  for  them  was 
such  as  passes  easily  for  a  love  of  truth.      But  truth  is  differently 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON  95 

conceived  of  nowadays,  and  rather  than  as  a  searcher  after  truth, 
we  must  think  of  him  as  a  doughty  disputant,  with  the  quahties 
moral  and  intellectual  that  go  to  make  one.  Intolerable  in  point 
of  fairness  or  of  taste  as  Warburton's  philippics  are,  his  confident 
alert  attitude  and  eye,  the  gusto  with  which  he  administers  a  coup 
dc  ordtc,  the  inexhaustible  fertility  of  his  invention  for  paradoxes, 
even  the  monstrous  character  of  many  of  his  arguments,  aid  in 
dissolving  our  resentment.  To  pass  now  and  then  into  the  zone 
of  his  stormy  polemics  may  be  found  a  change  of  moral  atmos- 
phere not  altogether  unhealthy  for  us  who  breathe  the  air  of 
weak  convictions  and  supei"fine  controversial  courtesies. 

It  is  not  needful  to  criticise  Warburton's  works  in  detail,  the 
outline  of  the  Scheme  of  the  Divine  Legation  will  be  sufficiently 
illustrative  of  his  mental  habit.  This  book,  though  running  to 
four  volumes,  is  really  a  long-drawn-out  controversial  pamphlet, 
whose  main  reasoning,  diversified  by  numerous  subsidiary  dis- 
cussions, rests  on  a  paradox — a  device  for  which,  and  especially 
as  a  point  of  departure  in  an  argument,  Warburton  had  a 
cherished  fondness.  The  absence  from  the  Mosaic  books  of  any 
reference  to  a  future  life  had,  it  appears,  been  pressed  by  the 
deists  as  sufficient  proof  that  the  expectation  of  a  life  to  come 
formed  no  part  of  the  Jewish  belief,  and  the  theologians  were 
hard  put  to  it  in  the  effort  to  frame  a  satisfactoiy  reply.  War- 
burton  admits  the  absence  of  any  such  reference,  but  draws  a 
very  unexpected  conclusion.  His  syllogism  runs  thus:  the 
Jew  was  taught  by  Moses  to  look  to  no  future  charged  with 
punishment  or  reward ;  but  by  universal  consent  the  moral 
law  demands  these  sanctions  for  its  support,  and  they  have  been 
found  indispensable  by  all  other  lawgivers  since  the  beginnings 
of  society.  It  follows  therefore  that,  for  the  Jew,  in  this 
present  life  divine  reward  and  retribution  attended  virtue  and  vice 
— -in  a  word,  God  was  the  actual  civil  governor  of  the  Jewish 
community.  Upon  such  frail  support  does  the  whole  structure  of 
this  extraordinary  book  rest  ;  "  his  syllogism,"  as  De  Quincey  says, 
"  is  so  divinely  poised,  that  if  you  shake  the  keystone  of  his  great 
arch,  you  will  Ijecome  aware  of  a  vibration,  a  nervous  tremor 
running  through  the  entire  dome  of  the  Divine  Legation."  A 
strange  feeling  accompanies  the  modern  reader  on  his  way 
through  the  book  ;  the  mere  count  of  years  that  have  passed 
since  it  was  written  is  no  measure  of  the  mental  interval  that 
separates   us  from   the  author ;    the  whole  problem  has  altered 


96  ENGLISH  PROSE 


beyond  recognition,  the  whole  horizon  of  thought  is  changed. 
His  curious  multifarious  learning,  his  subtile  lawyer-like  method 
in  speculative  matters,  his  almost  incredible  confidence  in  the 
torch  of  logic  to  light  the  way  to  truth,  these  are  now  subjects  of 
antiquarian  rather  than  of  living  interest. 

Since  Warburton  belongs  more  properly  to  the  history  of  intel- 
lectual method  than  to  the  history  of  literature,  there  is  little  for  the 
critic  to  say  of  his  style.  He  aimed  at  effectiveness,  and  attained 
not  an  effectiveness  due  to  any  unity,  but  of  a  fragmentary  kind, 
as  of  well-placed  blows.  The  mass  of  his  work  is  amorphous. 
It  is  not  surprising  that  he  did  not  care  to  pay  court  to  the  graces 
of  expression.  Purple  patches  or  poetic  imagery  would  have 
been  sadly  incongruous  in  books  that  are  best  described  as 
pillories  for  the  author's  adversaries.  But  if  it  lack  beauty,  his 
style  possesses  many  of  the  elements  of  strength — directness, 
precision,  and  that  high  quality,  freedom  from  all  affectations  and 
conceits. 

Before  the  eye  that  contemplates  the  intellectual  past  Warbur- 
ton looms  out  a  lofty  but  receding  figure,  for  he  was  in  no  sense 
a  man  of  ideas,  of  thought  that  outlives  or  serves  to  keep  alive  in 
the  world's  memory  the  social  or  intellectual  conditions  that  gave 
it  birth,  such  thought  as  makes  Berkeley  and  Burke,  or  their 
peers  of  an  elder  day,  stationary  and  inviolate  influences  that  win 
upon  us  like  those  of  living  friends.  He  may  stand  for  us  as  a 
perfect  representative  of  that  class  of  writers  whose  work,  without 
root  in  any  soil  of  permanent  human  interest,  makes  no  claim 
u|)on  the  gratitude  of  following  generations.  Warburton  served 
himself  better  than  his  party,  and  his  party  better  than  mankind. 


W.  Macneile  Dixon. 


LANGUAGE   HELPED   BY  ACTION 

Language,  as  appears  from  the  nature  of  the  thing,  from  the 
records  of  history,  and  from  the  remains  of  the  most  ancient 
languages  yet  remaining,  was  at  first  extremely  rude,  narrow,  and 
equivocal :  so  that  men  would  be  perpetually  at  a  loss,  on  any 
new  conception,  or  uncommon  accident,  to  explain  themselves 
intelligibly  to  one  another  ;  the  art  of  enlarging  language  by  a 
scientific  analogy  being  a  late  invention,  this  would  necessarily 
set  them  upon  supplying  the  deficiencies  of  speech  by  apt  and 
significant  signs.  Accordingly,  in  the  first  ages  of  the  world, 
mutual  converse  was  upheld  by  a  mixed  discourse  of  words  and 
actions  ;  hence  came  the  Eastern  phrase  of  the  voice  of  the  sign; 
and  use  and  custom,  as  in  most  other  affairs  of  life,  improving 
what  had  arisen  out  of  necessity,  into  ornament,  this  practice 
subsisted  long  after  the  necessity  was  over  ;  especially  amongst 
eastern  people,  whose  natural  temperament  inclined  them  to  a 
mode  of  conversation,  which  so  well  exercised  their  vivacity  by 
motion,  and  so  much  gratified  it,  by  a  perpetual  representation  of 
material  images.  Of  this  we  have  innumerable  instances  in  Holy 
Scripture  :  as  where  the  false  prophet  pushed  with  horns  of  iron, 
to  denote  the  entire  overthrow  of  the  Syrians  ;  where  Jeremiah, 
by  God's  direction,  hides  the  linen  girdle  in  a  hole  of  the  rock 
near  Euphrates ;  where  he  breaks  a  potter's  vessel  in  sight  of 
the  people,  puts  on  bonds  and  yokes,  and  casts  a  book  into 
Euphrates  ;  where  Ezekiel,  by  the  same  appointment,  delineates 
the  siege  of  Jerusalem  on  a  tile  ;  weighs  the  hair  of  his  beard  in 
balances  ;  carries  out  his  household  stuff ;  and  joins  together  the 
two  sticks  for  Judah  and  Israel.  By  these  actions  the  prophets 
instructed  the  people  in  the  will  of  God,  and  conversed  with  them 
in  signs  ;  but  where  God  teaches  the  prophet,  and  in  compliance 
to  the  custom  of  that  time,  condescends  to  the  same  mode  of 
instruction,  then  the  significative  action  is  generally  changed  into 

VOL.   IV  H 


98  ENGLISH  PROSE 


a  vision,  either  natural  or  extraordinaiy  :  as  where  the  prophet 
Jeremiah  is  bid  to  regard  the  rod  of  the  almond-tree  and  the 
seething  pot ;  the  work  on  the  potter's  wheel  and  the  baskets  of 
good  and  bad  figs ;  and  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  the  ideal  scene  of 
the  resurrection  of  the  dry  bones.  The  significative  action,  I 
say,  was  in  this  case  generally  changed  into  a  vision  ;  but  not 
always.  For  as,  sometimes,  where  the  instruction  was  for  the 
people,  the  significative  action  was,  perhaps,  in  vision :  so, 
sometimes  again,  though  the  information  was  only  for  the 
prophet,  God  would  set  him  upon  a  real  expressive  action,  whose 
obvious  meaning  conveyed  the  intelligence  proposed  or  sought. 
Of  this,  we  shall  give,  at  the  expense  of  infidelity,  a  very 
illustrious  instance.  The  excellent  Maimonides,  not  attending  to 
this  primitive  mode  of  information,  is  much  scandalized  at  several 
of  these  actions,  unbecoming,  as  he  supposed,  the  dignity  of  the 
prophetic  office  ;  and  is  therefore  for  resolving  them  in  general 
into  supernatural  visions,  impressed  on  the  imagination  of  the 
prophet ;  and  this,  because  some  few  of  them  may,  perhaps,  admit 
of  such  an  interpretation.  In  which  he  is  followed  by  Christian 
writers,  much  to  the  discredit,  as  I  conceive,  of  Revelation  and 
to  the  triumph  of  libertinism  and  infidelity  ;  the  actions  of  the 
prophets  being  delivered  as  realities  ;  and  these  writers  represent- 
ing them  as  mean,  absurd,  and  fanatical,  and  exposing  the  prophet 
to  contempt.  But  what  is  it  they  gain  by  this  expedient  ?  The 
charge  of  absurdity  and  fanaticism  will  follow  the  prophet  in  his 
visions,  when  they  have  removed  it  from  his  waking  actions  ;  for 
if  these  actions  were  absurd  and  fanatical  in  the  real  representa- 
tion, they  must  needs  be  so  in  the  imaginary  ;  the  same  turn  of 
mind  operating  both  asleep  and  awake.  The  judicious  reader 
therefore  cannot  but  observe  that  the  reasonable  and  true  defence 
of  the  prophetic  writings  is  what  is  here  offered  :  where  we  show, 
that  information  by  action  was,  at  this  time,  and  place,  a  very 
familiar  mode  of  conversation.  This  once  seen,  all  charge  of 
absurdity,  and  suspicion  of  fanaticism,  vanish  of  themselves  :  the 
absurdity  of  an  action  consists  in  its  being  extravagant  and 
insignificative  ;  but  use  and  a  fixed  application  made  these  in 
question  both  sober  and  pertinent :  the  fanaticism  of  an  action 
consists  in  a  fondness  for  unusual  actions  and  foreign  modes  of 
speech  ;  but  those  in  question  were  idiomatic  and  familiar.  To 
illustrate  this  last  observation  by  a  domestic  example  :  when  the 
sacred  writers  talk   of  being  born   after  the  spirit,   of  being  fed 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON  99 

wilh  the  sincere  milk  of  the  word,  of  putting  their  tears  into  a 
bottle,  of  bearing  testimony  against  lying  vanities,  of  taking  the 
veil  from  men's  hearts,  and  of  building  up  one  another  ;  they  speak 
the  common,  yet  proper  and  pertinent  phraseology  of  their 
country  ;  and  not  the  least  imputation  of  fanaticism  can  stick 
upon  these  original  expressions.  But  when  we  see  our  own 
countrjqnen  reprobate  their  native  idiom,  and  affect  to  employ  only 
scripture  phrases  in  their  whole  conversation,  as  if  some  inherent 
sanctity  resided  in  the  Eastern  modes  of  expression,  we  cannot 
choose  but  suspect  such  men  far  gone  in  the  delusions  of  a 
heated  imagination.  The  same  may  be  said  of  significative 
actions. 

(From  The  Divine  Legation  of  Moses  Demonstrated.) 


HOW  TO    MEET  ATTACKS 

As  to  the  manner  in  which  I  have  answered  some  of  my  adver- 
saries :  their  insufferable  abuse,  and  my  own  love  of  quiet,  made 
it  necessary.  I, had  tried  all  ways  to  silence  an  iniquitous 
clamour  :  by  neglect  of  it ;  by  good  words  ;  by  an  explanation  of 
my  meaning ;  and  all  without  effect.  The  first  volume  of  this 
obnoxious  work  had  not  been  out  many  days,  before  I  was  fallen 
upon  by  a  furious  ecclesiastical  news- writer,  with  the  utmost 
brutality.  All  the  return  I  then  made,  or  then  ever  intended  to 
make,  was  a  vindication  of  my  moral  character,  wrote  with  such 
temper  and  forbearance  as  seemed  affectation  to  those  who 
did  not  know  that  I  only  wanted  to  be  quiet.  But  I  reckoned 
without  my  host.  The  angiy  man  became  ten  times  more 
outrageous.  What  was  now  to  be  done  ?  I  tried  another 
method  with  him.  I  drew  his  picture  ;  I  exposed  him  naked  ; 
and  showed  the  public  of  what  parts  and  principles  this  tumour 
was  made  up.  It  had  its  effect ;  and  I  never  heard  more  of  him. 
On  this  occasion,  let  me  tell  the  reader  a  stoiy.  As  a  Scotch 
bagpiper  was  traversing  the  mountains  of  Ulster,  he  was,  one 
evening,  encountered  by  a  hunger-starved  Irish  wolf.  In  this 
distress,  the  poor  man  could  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  open 
his  wallet,  and  try  the  effects  of  his  hospitality.  He  did  so  :  and 
the  savage  swallowed  all  that  was  thrown  him  with  so  improving 
a  voracity,  as   if  his   appetite  was  but  just   coming  to  him.      The 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


whole  stock  of  provision,  you  may  be  sure,  was  soon  spent.  And 
now,  his  only  recourse  was  to  the  virtue  of  the  bagpipe  ;  which 
the  monster  no  sooner  heard,  than  he  took  to  the  mountains  with 
the  same  precipitation  that  he  had  come  down.  The  poor  piper 
could  not  so  perfectly  enjoy  his  deliverance,  but  that,  with  an 
angry  look  at  parting,  he  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  Ay  !  are 
these  your  tricks  ? — Had  I  known  your  humour,  you  should  have 
had  your  music  before  supper." 

But  though  I  had  the  cadiiceus  of  peace  in  my  hands,  yet  it 
was  only  in  cases  of  necessity  that  I  made  use  of  it.  And  there- 
fore I  chose  to  let  pass,  without  any  chastisement,  such  impotent 
railers  as  Dr.  Richard  Grey,  and  one  Bate,  a  zany  to  a  mounte- 
bank. On  the  other  hand,  when  I  happened  to  be  engaged  with 
such  very  learned  and  candid  writers  as  Dr.  Middleton  and  the 
Master  of  the  Charter-house,  I  gave  sufficient  proof  how  much  I 
preferred  a  different  manner  of  carrying  on  a  controversy,  would 
my  answerers  but  afford  me  the  occasion.  But  alas  !  as  I  never 
should  have  such  learned  men  long  my  adversaries,  and  never 
would  have  these  other  my  friends,  I  found  that,  if  I  wrote  at  all, 
I  must  be  condemned  to  a  manner,  which  all,  who  know  me, 
know  to  be  most  abhorrent  to  my  natural  temper.  So,  on  the 
whole,  I  resolved  to  quit  my  hands  of  them  at  once  ;  and  turn 
again  to  nobler  game,  more  suitable,  as  Dr.  Stebbing  tells  me,  to 
my  clerical  function,  that  pestilent  herd  of  libertine  scribblers, 
with  which  this  island  is  overrun  ;  whom  I  would  hunt  down,  as 
good  King  Edgar  did  his  wolves  ;  from  the  mighty  author  of 
CJiristianity  as  old  as  the  Creation^  to  the  drunken  blaspheming 
cobbler,  who  wrote  against  Jesus  and  the  Resurrection. 

(From  Remarks  on  Several  Occasional  Rcjlcctions.') 


GOD'S   MORAL  GOVERNMENT 

"  Lord,  what  is  man,  that  thou  takest  knowledge  of  him  !  or  the  son  of 
man,  that  tliou  niakest  account  of  him  !  " — Psalm  cxliv.  3. 

Thus  the  holy  prophet,  seized  with  a  sacred  horror  at  an  universe 
stretched  out  through  the  iinmensity  of  boundless  space  ;  and 
with  a  rapturous  gratitude  for  that  Goodness  who  has  graced  his 
favourite,  man,  with  so  tender  and  so  intimate  a  regard. 


IVILLIAM  WARBURTON 


Meditations  of  this  kind  are,  indeed,  most  obvious  and  affecting. 
The  religionist  and  the  man  of  the  world  have  equally  employed 
them  to  reduce  humanity  to  its  just  value  ;  though  for  very 
different  purposes  :  the  first  to  excite  religious  gratitude  in  others  ; 
the  second,  to  encourage  himself  in  an  impious  naturalism. 

When  the  Religionist  compares  this  small  spot  of  earth  to  the 
whole  of  its  system  ;  and  sees  a  number  of  primary  and  secondary 
planets,  habitations  like  his  own,  if  he  may  judge  by  probable 
analogy,  rolling  round  with  it,  and  performing  their  various 
revolutions  about  one  central  fire,  the  common  source  of  light 
and  warmth  to  all,  he  is  abashed  at  the  mean  and  diminished 
rank  his  own  world  bears  in  this  solemn  and  august  assembly. 

When,  by  the  aid  of  improved  astronomy,  he  compares  this 
subastral  economy  with  the  systems  of  the  fixed  stars  ;  every  one 
of  which  reigns  a  sun,  directing  and  influencing  the  revolutions 
of  its  attendant  planets  ;  and  sees  that,  as  the  earth  is  but  a 
point  compared  to  the  orb  of  Saturn,  so  the  orb  of  Saturn  itself 
grows  dimensionless  when  compared  to  that  vast  extent  of  space 
which  the  stellar-solar  systems  possess  and  occupy  ;  this  lord  of 
the  creation  shrinks  suddenly  from  his  height,  and  mingles  with 
the  lowest  crowd  of  unheeded  and  undistinguished  beings. 

But  when,  by  the  further  aids  of  science,  he  understands,  that 
a  new  host  of  heaven,  too  remotely  stationed  for  the  naked  sight 
to  draw  out  and  review,  hath  been  made  to  issue  into  day  ;  each 
of  which  shining  strangers  is  the  leader  of  a  troop  of  others, 
whose  borrowed  lustre,  too  weakly  reflected,  no  assistance  of  art 
can  bring  forward  ;  and  that  still,  when  sense  stops  short,  science 
pursues  the  great  discovery,  and  reason  carries  on  the  progress 
through  the  mighty  regions  of  boundless  space ;  the  fatigued 
imagination,  tracing  system  after  system,  as  they  rise  to  light  in 
endless  succession,  turns  frightened  back  upon  itself,  and  over- 
whelms the  labouring  mind  with  terror  and  astonishment  :  whence, 
it  never  can  disengage  itself  till  it  rises  on  the  wings  of  faith, 
which  bear  this  humbled  creature  from  himself,  and  place  him 
before  the  throne  of  God  ;  where  he  sees  the  mysteries  of  that 
Providence  laid  open,  whose  care  and  bounty  so  magnificently 
provides  for  the  meanest  of  his  creatures. 

Thus  piously  affected  is  the  religionist  with  the  sacred  horrors 
of  this  amazing  scene  ;  an  universe  stretched  out  through  the 
wide  regions  of  space,  and  terminated  on  all  sides  by  the  depths 
of  infinity. 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


But  let  us  turn  now  to  the  man  of  the  world,  whom  this  view 
of  things  rather  degrades  than  humbles.  Calmly  contemplative 
in  the  chair  of  false  science  he  derides  the  mistaken  gratitude  of 
the  benighted  religionist ;  a  gratitude  rising  not  on  reason,  but 
on  pride.  "  For  whether,"  says  he,  "  we  consider  this  earth,  the 
mansion  of  evil,  or  man,  its  wretched  inhabitant  ;  what  madness 
is  it  to  suppose,  that  so  sordid  a  corner,  and  so  forlorn  an 
occupant,  can  be  the  centre  of  God's  moral  government  ?  What 
but  the  lunacy  of  self-love  could  make  this  short-lived  reptile, 
shuffled  hither  as  it  were  by  fate,  and  precariously  sustained  by 
fortune,  imagine  himself  the  distinguished  care,  and  the  peculiar 
favourite  of  Heaven  .''  "  As  well,"  says  he,  "  might  the  blind  in- 
habitants of  an  ant-hill,  which  chance  had  placed  on  the  barren 
frontier  of  an  extended  empire,  flatter  themselves  with  being 
the  first  object  of  their  monarch's  policy,  who  had  unpeopled 
those  mighty  deserts  only  to  afford  room  and  safety  for  their 
busy  colonies.  The  most  that  reasoning  pride  can  tempt  us 
to  presume  is,  that  we  may  not  be  excluded  from  that  general 
providence  governing  by  laws  mechanical,  and,  once  for  all, 
impressed  on  matter  when  it  was  first  harmonised  into  systems. 
But  to  make  God  the  moral,  that  is  the  close,  the  minute 
and  immediate  inspector  into  human  actions,  is  degrading  him 
from  that  high  rank  in  which  this  philosophy  of  enlarged  crea- 
tion hath  so  fitly  placed  him  :  and  returning  him  to  the  people, 
travestied  to  the  mortal  size  of  local  godship  ;  under  which 
idea,  the  superstitious  vulgar  have  been  always  inclined  to  regard 
the  Maker  and  Governor  of  the  world." 

(From  a  Sennon  on  the  Governor  of  iJie  IVor/cl) 


JOHN   WESLEY 


[John  Wesley  (1703-1791),  was  born  17th  June  (o.S.)  1703,  at  Epworth,  in 
Lincolnshire,  where  his  father  was  rector.  He  owed  his  early  training  chiefly 
to  his  mother  {lu'e  Susanna  Wesley).  In  1709  the  rectory  was  burnt  down 
and  John  was  with  great  difficulty  rescued  from  the  flames.  This 
narrow  escape  made  a  life-long  impression  upon  him,  and  many  years 
later  he  described  himself  as  "  a  brand  plucked  out  of  the  burning."  In  1713 
he  received,  through  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  a  nomination  to  the 
Charterhouse,  and  there  he  received  his  education  until  his  entrance  at 
Christ  Church,  Oxford,  in  1720.  In  1725  he  was  ordained  by  the  Bishop  of 
Oxford  (Dr.  Potter),  and  in  1726  he  was  elected  Fellow  of  Lincoln  College. 
He  retained  his  Fellowship  until  his  unfortunate  marriage  with  the  widow 
Vazeille  in  1791.  In  1727  he  became  his  father's  curate  at  Epworth  and 
Wroot.  In  1729  he  was  summoned  back  to  Oxford  to  take  part  in  the 
college  tuition.  At  Oxford  he  found  a  religious  society,  founded  by  his  brother 
Charles,  then  a  student  of  Christ  Church.  Of  this  society  John  became  the 
head.  The  ' '  Oxford  Methodists  ' '  were  ascetics  of  a  markedly  church  type, 
and  they  were  warmly  encouraged  in  their  lives  of  devotion  and  practical  work 
by  the  Rector  of  Epworth.  In  1735  Samuel  Wesley  died,  and  in  the  same 
year  John  went  out  as  a  missionary  of  the  S.  P.G.  to  the  newly  founded 
colony  of  Georgia.  He  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  piety  of  some  Mora- 
vians he  met  on  the  voyage  out  and  in  the  Colon)'.  He  met  with  many 
difficulties  in  Georgia,  and  returned  home,  bitterly  disappointed,  in  1738. 
He  then  fell  under  the  influence  of  another  Moravian,  Peter  Bohler.  He 
visited  the  Moravian  settlement  at  Herrnhut,  and  on  his  return  commenced 
that  career  of  incessant  activity,  physical  and  mental,  in  the  cause  of  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  truth,  which  ended  only  with  his  death.  He  founded 
societies,  itinerated  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom,  preaching  wherever  he  went, 
and  arranging  the  elaborate  organisation  of  his  societies,  of  which  he  was  the 
absolute  master.  He  visited  Scotland  and  Ireland  frequently,  and  at  last 
died  in  harness,  2nd  March  1791.  Long  before  his  death,  he  had  outlived 
all  the  opposition  (sometimes  amounting  to  actual  violence)  which  he  had 
encountered  in  his  earlier  career.  He  was  generally  respected  in  the  church 
of  his  baptism,  to  which  he  never  ceased  to  affirm  his  adherence,  while  by  his 
own  followers  he  was  regarded  with  a  veneration,  to  which  there  is  scarcely  a 
parallel  in  the  history  of  religious  leaders.  ] 

It   is    not,    of  course,    as   a   writer    of   English    Prose   that  John 
Wesley  is    best   known.      Nevertheless   he    could  and   did   write 


104  ENGLISH  PROSE 


exceedingly  well  ;  and  his  publications,  if  we  include  all  that  he 
edited,  abridged,  or  translated  as  well  as  his  original  compositions, 
were  far  more  numerous  than  those  of  any  man  of  his  time.  For 
more  than  half  a  century  scarcely  a  year  elapsed  without  some- 
thing, and  generally  a  great  number  of  things,  appearing  in  print 
for  which  John  Wesley  was  responsible.  He  was  not  at  all 
ambitious  of  literary  fame,  and  declared  that  he  dare  no  more 
use  a  fine  word  than  he  would  wear  a  fine  coat.  But  he  could 
not  help  writing  like  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman  ;  and  the  long 
logical  training  lie  had  received  at  Oxford,  first  as  a  learner, 
and  then  as  a  "  moderator  of  the  classes,"  had  taught  him  how  to 
marshal  his  arguments  lucidly  and  effectively.  "  As  for  me," 
he  writes,  "  I  never  think  of  my  style  at  all,  but  just  set  down  the 
words  that  come  first."  Perhaps  that  is  the  very  reason  why  his 
style  is  good  ;  there  is  no  straining  after  effect,  nothing 
artificial  about  it ;  it  is  terse,  racy,  and  vigorous.  In  everything  he 
wrote,  as  in  everything  he  said  and  did,  he  had  some 
practical  object  in  view ;  and  he  always  makes  straight  for 
that  object.  Surprise  has  often  been  expressed  at  the  wonderful 
effects  which  his  sermons  unquestionably  produced.  No  one 
would  dream  of  quoting  them  as  specimens  of  pulpit  eloquence  ; 
nor  do  they  show  any  remarkable  originality  of  thought  or 
depth  of  learning.  But  the  want  of  these  things  was  the  very 
cause  of  their  success  ;  for  what  seem  to  us  commonplaces  were 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  new  truths  to  the  multitudes  who 
were  roused  from  their  torpor  by  Wesley.  Florid  language  and 
original  ideas  would  have  flown  far  above  their  heads.  Plain 
truth  expressed  in  plain  language  was  what  they  wanted :  and 
Wesley  gave  it  to  them  to  perfection.  John  Wesley,  however,  as 
a  prose  writer,  cannot  be  reckoned  among  the  immortals  ;  and 
therefore  for  the  purpose  of  this  work  a  few  very  brief  extracts 
from  his  writings  will  suffice. 

J.  H.  Overton. 


A  MAN   OF  ONE   BOOK 

To  candid,  reasonable  men,  I  am  not  afraid  to  lay  open  what  have 
been  the  inmost  thoughts  of  my  heart.  I  have  thought,  I  am  a 
creature  of  a  day,  passing  through  Hfe  as  an  arrow  through  the 
air.  I  am  a  spirit  come  from  God,  and  returning  to  God  :  just 
hovering  over  the  great  gulf ;  till,  a  few  moments  hence,  I  am  no 
more  seen  ;  I  drop  into  an  unchangeable  eternity  !  I  want  to 
know  one  thing, — the  way  to  heaven  ;  how  to  land  safe  on  that 
happy  shore.  God  himself  has  condescended  to  teach  me  the 
way.  For  this  very  end  He  came  from  heaven.  He  hath  written 
it  down  in  a  book.  O  give  me  that  book  !  At  any  price,  give 
me  the  book  of  God  !  I  have  it :  here  is  knowledge  enough  for 
me.  Let  me  be  Jioino  imius  libri.  Here  then  I  am,  far  from  the 
busy  ways  of  men.  I  sit  down  alone  ;  only  God  is  here.  In  His 
presence  I  open,  I  read  His  book  ;  for  this  end,  to  find  the  way 
to  heaven.  Is  there  a  doubt  concerning  the  meaning  of  what  I 
read  ?  Does  anything  appear  dark  or  intricate  ?  I  lift  up  my 
heart  to  the  Father  of  Lights  : — "  Lord,  is  it  not  Thy  word,  '  if  any 
man  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God  ? '  Thou  givest  liberally, 
and  upbraidest  not.  Thou  hast  said,  '  if  any  be  willing  to  do 
Thy  will,  he  shall  know.'  I  am  willing  to  do,  let  me  know  Thy 
will."  I  then  search  after  and  consider  parallel  passages  of 
Scripture,  "comparing  spiritual  things  with  spiritual."  I  medi- 
tate thereon  with  all  the  attention  and  earnestness  of  which  my 
mind  is  capable.  If  any  doubt  still  remains,  I  consult  those  who 
are  experienced  in  the  things  of  God  :  and  then  the  writings 
whereby,  being  dead,  they  yet  speak.  And  what  I  thus  learn, 
that  I  teach.  {Yxoiw  Preface  to  Sermons.) 


ON    DRE.SS 

1  CONJURE  you  all  who  have  any  regard  for  me,  show  me  Ijefore  I 
go  hence  that   I  have  not  laboured,  even  in  this  respect,  in  vain 


io6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


for  near  half  a  century.  Let  me  see,  before  I  die,  a  Methodist 
congregation,  full  as  plain  dressed  as  a  Quaker  congregation. 
Only  be  more  consistent  with  yourselves.  Let  your  dress  be 
cheap  as  well  as  plain,  otherwise  you  do  but  trifle  with  God,  and 
me  and  your  own  souls.  I  pray,  let  there  be  no  costly  silks 
among  you,  how  grave  soever  they  may  be.  Let  there  be  no 
Quaker  linen,  pproverbially  so  called,  for  their  exquisite  fineness  ; 
no  Brussels  lace,  no  elephantine  hats  or  bonnets, — those  scandals 
of  female  modesty.  Be  all  of  a  piece,  dressed  from  head  to  foot 
as  persons  professing  godliness  ;  professing  to  do  everything, 
small  and  great,  with  the  single  view  of  pleasing  God. 

Let  not  any  of  you  who  are  rich  in  this  world  endeavour  to 
excuse  yourselves  from  this  by  talking  nonsense.  It  is  stark 
staring  nonsense  to  say  "  Oh,  I  can  afford  this  or  that."  No  man 
living  can  afford  to  waste  any  part  of  what  God  has  committed  to 
his  trust.  None  can  afford  to  throw  any  part  of  that  food  and 
raiment  into  the  sea,  which  was  lodged  with  him  on  purpose  to 
feed  the  hungry,  and  clothe  the  naked.  And  it  is  far  worse  than 
simple  waste,  to  spend  any  part  of  it  in  gay  or  costly  apparel. 
For  this  is  no  less  than  to  turn  wholesome  food  into  deadly  poison. 
It  is  giving  so  much  money  to  poison  both  yourself  and  others, 
as  far  as  your  example  spreads,  with  pride,  vanity,  anger,  lust, 
love  of  the  world,  and  a  thousand  foolish  and  hurtful  desires, 
which  tend  to  pierce  them  through  with  many  sorrows.  And  is 
there  no  harm  in  all  this  ?  O  God,  arise,  and  maintain  Thine 
own  cause  !  Let  not  men  or  devils  any  longer  put  out  our  eyes, 
and  lead  us  blindfold  into  the  pit  of  destruction  ! 

I  beseech  you  every  man  that  is  here  present  before  God,  every 
woman,  young  or  old,  married  or  single,  yea,  every  child  that 
knows  good  from  evil,  take  this  to  yourself.  Each  of  you,  for 
one,  take  the  Apostle's  advice  ;  at  least,  hinder  not  others  from 
taking  it.  I  beseech  you,  O  ye  parents,  do  not  hinder  your 
children  from  following  their  own  convictions,  even  though  you 
might  think  they  would  look  prettier  if  they  were  adorned  with 
such  gewgaws  as  other  children  wear !  I  beseech  you  O  ye 
husbands,  do  not  hinder  your  wives  !  You,  O  ye  wives  do  not 
hinder  your  husbands,  either  by  word  or  deed,  from  acting  just  as 
they  are  persuaded  in  their  own  minds.  Above  all,  I  conjure  you 
ye  half-Methodists,  you  that  trim  between  us  and  the  world,  you 
that  frequently,  perhaps  constantly,  hear  our  preaching,  but  are  in 
no  further  connection  with  us  ;  yea,  and  all  you  that  were  once  in 


JOHN  WESLEY  io7 


full  connection  with  us,  but  are  not  so  now  ;  whatever  ye  do  your- 
selves, do  not  say  one  word  to  hinder  others  from  recovering  and 
practising  the  advice  which  has  been  now  given  !  Yet  a  little 
while,  and  we  shall  not  need  these  poor  coverings  ;  for  this 
corruptible  body  shall  put  on  incorruption.  Yet  a  few  days  hence 
and  this  mortal  body  shall  put  on  immortality.  In  the 
meantime,  let  this  be  our  only  care,  to  put  off  the  old  man 
— our  old  nature,  which  is  corrupt,  which  is  altogether  evil — 
and  to  put  on  the  new  man,  which  after  God  is  created  in 
righteousness  and  true  holiness.  In  particular,  put  on,  as  the 
elect  of  God,  bowels  of  mercies,  kindness,  gentleness,  long- 
suffering.  Yea,  to  sum  all  up  in  one  word  ;  put  on  Christ  ;  that 
when  He  shall  appear,  ye  may  appear  with  Him  in  glory. 

(From  Sermon  Ixxxviii.) 


ON   THE   RESULTS   OF   METHODISM 

Behold,  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  come  !  He  is  again  visiting  and 
redeeming  His  people.  Having  eyes,  see  ye  not  !  Having  ears, 
do  ye  not  hear,  neither  understand  with  your  hearts  ?  At  this 
hour  the  Lord  is  rolling  away  our  reproach.  Already  His  standard 
is  set  up.  His  spirit  is  poured  forth  on  the  outcasts  of  men,  and 
His  love  shed  abroad  in  their  hearts.  Love  of  all  mankind, 
meekness,  gentleness,  humbleness  of  mind,  holy  and  heavenly 
affections  do  take  place  of  hate,  anger,  pride,  revenge,  and  vile  or 
vain  affections.  Hence,  whenever  the  power  of  the  Lord 
spreads,  springs  outward  affection  in  all  its  forms.  The  houses  of 
God  are  filled  ;  the  table  of  the  Lord  is  thronged  on  every  side. 
And  those  who  thus  show  their  love  of  God,  show  they  love  their 
neighbour  also,  by  being  careful  to  maintain  good  works,  by  doing 
all  manner  of  good,  as  they  have  time,  to  all  men.  They  are 
likewise  careful  to  abstain  from  all  evil.  Cursing,  Sabbath-ljreaking, 
drunkenness,  with  all  other  (however  fashionable)  works  of  the 
devil,  are  not  once  named  among  them.  All  this  is  plain  demon- 
strable fact.  For  this  also  is  not  done  in  a  corner.  Now,  do  you 
acknowledge  the  day  of  your  visitation  ?  Do  you  bless  God  and 
rejoice  therein  ! 

What  hinders?      Is   it  this, — that  men  say  all   manner  of  evil 
of  those  whom  God  is  pleased  to  use  as  instruments  in  His  work  ? 


io8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


O  ye  fools  did  ye  suppose  the  devil  was  dead  ?  Is  he  not  a  liar 
and  the  father  of  it  ?  Suffer  ye  then  thus  far,  let  the  devil  and  his 
children  say  all  manner  of  evil  of  us.  And  let  them  go  on 
deceiving  each  other,  and  being  deceived.  But  ye  need  not  be 
deceived  also  ;  or  if  you  are,  if  you  will  believe  all  they  say,  be  it 
so, — that  we  are  weak,  silly,  wicked  men  ;  without  sense,  without 
learning,  without  even  a  desire  or  design  of  doing  good  ;  yet  I 
insist  upon  the  fact  :  Christ  is  preached,  and  sinners  are  con- 
verted to  God.  This  none  but  a  madman  can  deny.  We  are 
ready  to  prove  it  by  a  cloud  of  witnesses.  Neither,  therefore,  can 
the  inference  be  denied,  that  God  is  now  visiting  His  people.  O 
that  all  men  may  know,  in  this  their  day,  the  things  that  make 
for  their  peace  ! 

(From  An  Earnest  Appeal  to  Men  of  Reason  and  Religion.') 


HENRY    FIELDING 


[Henry  Fielding  was  born  on  the  22nd  of  April  1707  at  Sharpham  Park,  in 
Somersetshire.  His  father  was  Edmund  Fielding,  an  officer  and  subsequently 
a  general  in  the  army,  who  was  himself  the  son  of  John  Fielding,  canon  of 
Salisbury,  and  grandson  of  the  first  Earl  of  Desmond  of  the  Fielding  family. 
That  family  also  possessed  the  title  of  Denbigh,  with  which  at  present  that  of 
Desmond  is  united.  The  novelist's  mother  was  Sarah  Gould,  daughter  of  a 
judge  whose  seat  Sharpham  was  ;  and  there,  or  at  East  Stour  in  Dorset,  Fielding 
spent  his  childhood.  He  was  sent  to  Eton  and  subsequently  to  the  University 
of  Leyden  ;  but  our  knowledge  of  the  events  of  his  youth  (as  indeed  of  most 
of  his  life)  is  very  scanty  and  uncertain.  At  about  the  time  when  he  came 
of  age  we  find  him  back  in  London,  where  for  some  seven  years  he  occupied 
himself  in  writing  numerous  plays,  the  best  or  the  least  bad  of  which  is  Tom 
Thumb.  About  1735  he  married  a  young  lady  named  Charlotte  Cradock,  who 
is  said  to  have  possessed  great  beauty  and  charm,  and  to  have  been  the 
model  of  his  heroines,  especially  Amelia  ;  and  for  a  time  he  seems  to  have 
retired  to  East  Stour  and  lived  the  life  of  a  country  gentleman.  But  if  he 
did  he  soon  returned  to  town,  to  play-writing,  to  the  management  of  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  and  to  the  composition  of  miscellaneous  literature, 
including  in  1739  great  part  of  a  periodical  called  The  Chatnpion.  He  also 
was  called  to  the  bar  and  practised  a  little.  But  in  1742  his  first  novel, 
Joseph  Andrews,  appeared,  and  was  warmly  received  by  good  judges.  This 
may  have  encouraged  him  to  issue  next  year  three  volumes  of  Miscellanies, 
which  with  much  inferior  work  included  not  only  the  Jozirney  f'vm  this  World 
to  the  Next  but  also  Jonathan  Wild.  Shortly  afterwards  his  wife  died  ;  and 
four  years  later  he  married  her  maid.  In  the  crisis  of  1745  he  had  edited  or 
written  two  Whig  periodicals,  the  True  Patriot  and  Xhe  Jacobite  s  Journal ;  but 
again  very  little  is  known  of  him  till  the  influence  of  Mr.  Lyttelton  procured 
him  the  Bow  .Street  magistrateship,  and  he  published  Tom  Jones  in  1749.  He 
worked  very  hard  in  his  office  ;  published  Amelia  in  1751,  wrote  not  a  few 
pamphlets  and  a  fresh  periodical,  the  Covent  Garden  Jortrnal,  which  lasted  for 
the  greater  part  of  1752.  Next  year  his  health,  which  had  long  been  un- 
satisfactory, grew  steadily  worse,  and  a  journey  to  some  warmer  climate  was 
ordered.  He  started  for  Lisbon  in  June  1754  and  reached  it  in  August,  but 
died  there  on  the  8th  October.  His  Journal  of  the  voyage,  one  of  his  not 
least  charming  things,  was  published  shortly  afterwards,  but  contains  no 
account  of  anything  subsequent  to  his  landing.  ] 

Considering  how  much  has  been  said  of  the  qualities  of  Fielding 
as  a  novelist  by  authorities  of  all  degrees  of  competence,  and  how 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


little  pains  in  comparison  have  been  bestowed  on  him  strictly  as 
a  writer,  the  part  of  the  subject  with  which  it  will  be  most  profit- 
able to  deal  here  seems  to  be  pretty  clearly  indicated.  On  the 
first  head  indeed,  though  it  cannot  be  said  that  agreement  is 
absolute,  belief  in  Fielding's  extraordinary  excellence  is  unques- 
tionably the  orthodox  faith,  while  the  dissenters  from  it  are  few 
and,  with  rare  exceptions  among  those  few,  unimportant.  Objec- 
tions in  detail  have  indeed  been  taken,  and  may  in  part  be  taken 
justly,  to  the  digressions  and  secondary  stories  which  interrupt 
and  prolong  the  narrative  in  almost  all  the  books,  to  the  some- 
what easy-going  morality,  and  the  very  complaisant  dealing  with 
loose  if  engaging  incidents,  to  the  relentless  picture  of  human 
villainy  in  Jonathan  Wild,  to  the  obtrusion  of  political  and  other 
dissertation  in  Amelia.  Some  of  these  objections  (as  well  as  others 
which  might  be  mentioned)  are  of  force.  But  they  touch  mere 
details,  and  fall  altogether  short  of  the  level  of  the  excellencies 
which  may  on  the  other  hand  be  assigned  to  him.  The  highest 
praise  of  all  has  sometimes  been  claimed  for  the  mathematical 
exactness  of  construction  which  has  been  thought  to  make  the 
plot  of  Tom  Jofics  the  most  symmetrical  and  faultless  to  be  found 
in  modern  times.  A  still  higher  value  has  been  assigned — 
perhaps  justly — by  others  to  the  combination  of  inventiveness 
and  truth  in  character-drawing  wherein  Fielding  has  hardly  a 
rival.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  him  to  produce  a  class  of 
character  which,  even  after  a  great  lapse  of  time  and  a  greater 
change  of  manners,  does  not  strike  us  now  as  real  and  alive  ; 
nor  has  he  any  difficulty  in  differentiating  his  characters  of  the 
same  class  from  each  other  by  little  living  touches  and  shades.  His 
descriptions  of  persons,  of  places,  of  incidents,  have  this  same 
veracity  and  brilliancy  of  drawing  in  a  hardly  less  extraordinary 
degree.  Others  again  have  fixed  for  special  admiration  on  the 
acuteness  and  (within  certain  limits)  the  profundity  of  his  general 
observations  on  human  life  and  nature  ;  others  on  his  irony — a 
gift  in  which  among  English  writers  he  is  only  excelled  by  Swift 
and  only  approached  by  Thackeray  ;  others  on  the  genial  and 
humane  conception  of  life  which,  though  certainly  not  coupled 
with  any  very  great  optimism  of  philosophical  view,  distinguishes 
his  books  ;  others  on  the  lambent  easy  light  of  the  humour  which 
— deriving  in  part  from  qualities  and  gifts  already  referred  to,  but 
containing  in  it  something  peculiar  and  additional — illuminates 
the  whole  of  his  work.      It  is  not  necessary  to  attempt  to  rank 


HENRY  FIELDING 


these  gifts  in  order  ;  the  more  excellent  way  is  to  admire  and  enjoy 
them  all  in  their  certainly  unique  combination. 

A  question  too  important  to  omit  altogether,  but  too  complicated 
to  examine  thoroughly,  is  the  relation  of  this  wonderful  work  in 
fiction  to  earlier  members  of  the  same  class  in  English  Literature. 
The  delusive  and  rhetorical  title  of  "  Father  of  the  English  Novel  " 
has  been  applied  to  Fielding,  as  to  Richardson,  to  Defoe  and  to 
others.  What  is  certain  is,  that  he  raised  that  novel  at  once  in 
the  scales  of  complexity,  of  variety,  and  of  truth  to  life.  But  we 
have  nothing  whatever  to  guide  us  in  seeking  to  discover  the 
motives  which  put  him  upon  the  practice  of  this  art ;  and  not 
very  much  to  help  us  to  his  own  theory  of  the  novel.  He  calls 
it  indeed  in  one  place  a  comic  epic  poem  in  prose  ;  but  it  would  be 
distinctly  dangerous  to  accept  this  definition  in  too  good  faith,  and 
other  passages  in  which  he  claims  for  the  novelist  a  sort  of  parity 
with  the  historian  proper  in  the  philosophical  arrangement  of  motive 
and  event,  may  not  be  more  serious.  He  did  not,  it  must  be 
remembered,  ^^xo^wcq  Joseph  A?idrews,  his  first  published  novel, 
till  he  was  just  ceasing  to  be  a  young  man  even  at  the  liberal 
computation  of  youth,  which  makes  it  cease  at  thirty-five  ;  and  it  is 
veiy  improbable  that  he  wrote  Jonathan  Wild  much  earlier,  even 
if  its  age  in  production  be  not  identical  with  its  date  of  publication. 
I  should  indeed  judge  from  internal  evidence — there  is  no  other 
— that  the  Journey  from  this  World  to  the  Next  was  a  good  deal 
the  senior  of  both  of  these.  But  here,  though  there  is  much  of 
Fielding's  acute  observation  and  shrewd  recording  of  traits  of 
human  nature,  neither  gift  is  put  to  any  real  degree  at  the  service 
of  the  art  of  story-telling  proper,  and  the  book  is  merely  a  string 
of  character-sketches,  not  much  if  at  all  more  like  those  of  a  novel 
or  even  a  romance,  than  the  essays  with  personages  of  Addison 
and  his  group.  Surprising  therefore  as  it  may  seem  that  such  a 
masterpiece  as  Joseph  Andreses  should  be  a  mere  recoil  from 
something  else,  a  mere  parody  not  to  say  caricature,  it  is  difficult 
to  avoid  the  conclusion  that  the  desire  to  ridicule  Richardson  and 
Pamela  was  its  real  original  ;  while  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
no  very  different  motive  need  be  assigned  to  the  possibly  con- 
temporary/,c;;fz///fl;z  Wild.  Indeed,  careful  readers  oi  Jonathan, 
especially  of  the  curious  episode  of  Mrs.  Heartfree's  adventures, 
will  have  noticed  not  a  few  attempts  at  burlesque  of  the  French 
and  other  romances.  That  these  two  exercises  must  have  revealed 
to  Fielding  his  own  powers  and   set  him   on   the   construction  of 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  far  more  ambitious  edifice  of  Tom  Jones  is  not  so  much  probable 
as  certain  ;  while  no  additional  disposing  causes  except  remin- 
iscences of  his  youth  and  observations  made  in  his  Bow  Street 
office  need  be  assigned  for  Amelia. 

The  acquired  accomplishments,  as  distinguished  from  the 
natural  genius,  with  which  Fielding  set  about  the  production  of 
his  masterpieces,  and  the  qualities  of  craftsman  in  English  as 
distinguished  from  those  of  expert  in  human  nature  which  he 
possessed  are  not  uninteresting  or  unimportant  to  investigate. 
Although  a  man  of  good  reading,  and  (as  is  now  known)  the 
possessor  in  his  later  years  at  any  rate  of  a  considerable  library, 
he  can  hardly  be  ranked  among  the  most  scholarly  of  English 
writers.  He  enjoyed  indeed  the  inestimable  advantage — some- 
times flouted  by  ungrateful  persons  who  have  had  it,  or  disdained 
in  fox-and-grapes  fashion  by  those  who  have  not,  but  absolutely 
unmistakable  in  the  results  of  its  presence  or  absence — which  is 
conferred,  and  conferred  only,  by  the  old-fashioned  classical 
education.  But  it  is  uncertain  how  long  he  was  exposed  to  its 
influence  at  Eton,  and  certain  that  the  greater  part  of  his 
intellectual  breeding  was  rather  haphazard.  And  when  he  began 
to  write  (which  he  did  very  early,  and  when  most  men  are  still  at 
the  University)  it  was  in  the  service  of  the  most  careless  and  ungirt 
of  all  the  Muses,  the  Muse  of  Farce  and  stage  burlesque.  Nor 
can  it  be  said  that,  even  after  many  years  of  practice  in  somewhat 
severer  kinds,  he  was  ever  a  very  correct  writer  ;  though  there 
is  a  great  advance  in  correctness  to  be  noticed  between  the  Jomyiey 
from  this  World  to  the  Next  and  the  Voyage  to  Lisbon.  In  the 
former,  as  elsewhere,  the  distinction  which  he  himself  both  ingeni- 
ously and  ingenuously  puts  in  his  Epistle  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole, 

"  Latin  I  write  and  Greek — I  read," 

is  illustrated  ;  for  a  translator  of  the  First  Olynthiac  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  to  use  the  non-existent  and  indeed  impossible 
form  "  Nousphoric."  In  this  same  piece  the  mere  English  is 
also  far  from  perfect.  Relatives  and  demonstratives  are  perpetu- 
ally used  without  precision  and  with  confusion  ;  the  sentences  are 
piled  up  with  addition  after  addition  in  the  old  fashion  ;  and  it  is 
particularly  noteworthy  that  Fielding  is  here  trying,  with  very 
partial  success,  at  the  crisp  ironic  phrase  to  which  he  afterwards 
attained  in  perfection. 

In  Joseph  and  JonatJian.,  l)ut  especially  in  the  former,  he  was 


HENR  Y  FIELDING  1 1 3 


face  to  face  with  a  new  task — the  recounting  of  lively  and  vivid 
action  ;  and  here  what  Carlyle  might  have  called  "  the  coming 
together  of  the  man  and  the  tools "  produces  at  once  a  great 
improvement.  This  is  considerably  less  noticeable  in  Jottat/um 
Wild,  which  for  that  reason,  as  well  as  others,  I  should  supptose 
to  have  been  composed  earlier  than  its  forerunner  in  print  ;  but 
it  is  noticeable  here  to  some  extent,  and  \n  Joseph  Andrews  to  an 
extent  much  greater.  The  sentences  are  not  indeed  invariably 
but  frequently  shortened  ;  the  ambiguities  of  reference  in  the 
pronouns  are  less  frequent  ;  and  from  this  time  forward  most  of 
what  looks  like  incorrectness  will  be  found  to  be  confined  to 
passages  in  which  Fielding — according  to  a  practice  rather  dubious 
but  evidently  a  favourite  with  him — puts  into  the  mouth  of  his 
characters,  not  speeches  in  the  first  person,  but  a  sort  of  summary 
in  oratio  obliqua  of  the  substance  of  what  they  said. 

A  still  further  improvement  is  noticeable  in  Tom  Jones j  indeed 
by  the  date  of  that  great  book  Fielding  had  in  every  way  attained 
the  majority  and  climax  of  his  powers.  .He  cannot  have  written 
it  hurriedly  ;  and  though  we  know  extremely  little  of  his  life  during 
the  seven  years  between  1742  and  1749,  what  we  do  know 
authorises  us  in  supposing  a  quieter  and  less  distracted  existence 
than  that  of  his  early  manhood,  when  he  boxed  the  compass  of 
experiences  between  the  stage  and  the  bar,  the  hunting-field  and 
the  gaol.  The  abundance  of  incident  and  the  pungency  of  the  con- 
versation are  apt  to  divert  the  attention  in  Tom  Jones  from  merely 
scholastic  questions  of  style  ;  but  the  frequent  digressions  and 
dissertations,  which  still  form  part  of  the  author's  plan,  show  him 
in  the  possession  of  a  far  freer,  crisper,  more  hig"hly  organised 
vehicle  and  medium  of  discussion,  than  he  had  attained  in  the 
Journey,  or  even  in  his  earlier  novels.  And  if  this  advance  was 
not  pushed  further,  it  was  at  least  fully  maintained  in  Amelia  and 
in  the  Voyage  to  Lisbon.  Indeed  this  little  posthumous  Memoir 
exhibits  Fielding  for  the  most  part  quite  at  his  best  as  far  as 
writing'  goes.  Yet  even  here  we  may  note  lapses — allowing,  of 
course,  for  the  fact  that  the  author  never  saw  the  book  in  type, 
but  noting  at  the  same  time  that  all  the  little  imperfections  notice- 
able are  to  be  paralleled  in  the  books  which  he  himself  passed 
through  the  press.  Here,  for  instance,  is  an  example  taken  from 
that  interesting  passage  in  which  Fielding  expresses  his  wonder 
that  yachting  is  not  a  more  popular  amusement,  thus  following 
Roger  North  (1  think)  as  the  second  Englishman  of  letters  to 

VOL.  IV  I 


1 1 4  ENGLISH  rR OSE 


eulogise  the  most  English  of  sports.  "  The  truth,"  he  says,  "  I 
believe  is  that  sailing  in  the  manner  I  have  just  mentioned  is  a 
pleasure  rather  unknown  or  unthought  of  than  rejected  by  those 
who  have  experienced  it  ;  unless,  perhaps,  the  apprehension  of 
daftger  or  sea-sickness  may  be  supposed  by  the  timorous  and 
delicate  to  make  too  large  deductions — insisting  that  all  their 
enjoyments  should  come  to  them  pure  and  unmixed,  and  ever 
being  ready  to  cry  out — 

Nocet  empta  dolore  voluptas. " 

Now  this  awkward  construction  of  "  insisting  "  with  "  the  timorous 
and  delicate  "  would  not  in  the  least  surprise  us  in  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  but  it  is  a  little  surprising  to  find  a 
writer  of  the  first  class  employing  it  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth. 

In  fact,  however,  imperfections  of  this  kind  (on  the  criticism 
whereof  Fielding  himself,  perhaps  not  without  some  touch  of  con- 
science, is  not  unfrequently  a  little  severe)  are  of  less  importance 
in  the  kind  of  literature  to  which  he  fortunately  addicted  himself 
than  anywhere  else.  In  history,  in  philosophy,  in  oratory,  in 
essay-writing  they  are  much  more  material  ;  and  I  am  rather  dis- 
i:)osed  to  believe  that  the  impatience  sometimes  shown  of  Fielding's 
digressions  and  divagations  is  in  part  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
shortcomings  of  his  mere  style  are  most  obvious  there.  But  in 
novel-writing  proper  they  matter  comparatively  little.  It  is  true 
that  only  the  veriest  glutton  of  romance  is  entirely  indifferent  to 
the  style  of  the  romancer  when  it  is  positively  and  shockingly 
bad  ;  while  the  taste  for  the  novel  of  character  can  hardly  coexist 
with  a  complete  insensibility  to  the  merits  and  defects  of  writing. 
But  relatively  the  goodness  and  badness  of  mere  writing  count 
for  less  in  either  case  than  in  the  case  of  any  other  kind  of  com- 
position ;  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  practitioners  of  fiction  have, 
for  this  reason  or  that,  been  more  careless  than  any  of  their 
brethren  in  regard  to  this  point.  There  are  only  two  other  writers 
whom  I  at  least  should  rank  with  Fielding  in  the  very  topmost 
class  of  English  novelists.  And  both  Scott  and  Thackeray  were 
notoriously  careless  in  the  mint  and  anise  and  cumin  of  style. 

Yet  Fielding  had,  and  had  eminently,  the  style  which  belongs 
to  his  own  kind  of  work.  The  picked  and  outlandish  epithets, 
the  elaborately  set  conceits,  of  some  writers  would  have  been  not 
more  or  less  inappropriate  to  his  downright  and  massive  grasp  of 
human   nature,  than  the  flourish  and  ornament  of  others,  would 


HENR  y  FIEL  DING  1 1 5 


have  been  awkwardly  suited  with  his  direct  and  piercing  irony, 
his  simple  and  sincere  humour.  It  was  not  his  object,  and  it 
would  not  have  fitted  his  nature,  to  give  his  readers  "  blessed 
words "  to  chew  and  puzzle  over,  conundrums  to  guess,  dainty 
tissues  of  writing  to  admire  independently  of  the  subject  and  the 
meaning.  He  might,  if  his  education  and  early  practice  had  been 
different,  have  written  with  more  formal  correctness  and  yet  none 
the  worse  ;  he  could  hardly,  if  the  paradox  may  be  pardoned, 
have  written  otherwise  than  he  did  and  yet  have  written  much 
the  better.  Of  no  one  is  the  much-quoted  and  much-misquoted 
maxim  of  Bufifon  more  justified  than  of  him.  His  style  is  exactly 
suited  to  his  character  and  his  production — which  latter,  be  it 
remembered,  considering  the  pleasures  of  his  youth  and  the  busi- 
ness of  his  age,  was  very  considerable.  No  fault  of  his  style  can 
ever,  either  in  the  general  reader  or  in  the  really  qualified  critic, 
have  hindered  the  enjoyment  of  the  best  part  of  his  work  :  and 
like  the  work  itself  the  style  in  which  it  is  clothed  is  eminently 
English.  It  is  English  no  less  in  its  petty  shortcomings  of  correct- 
ness, precision,  and  grace,  than  in  its  mighty  merits  of  power  and 
range.  Of  the  letter  Fielding  may  be  here  and  there  a  little 
neglectful  ;  in  the  spirit  he  always  holds  fast  to  the  one  indispens- 
able excellence,  the  adjustment  of  truth  and  life  to  art. 


George  Saintsbury. 


THE   PASSENGERS  TO   HADES 

It  was  very  dark  when  we  set  out  from  the  inn,  nor  could  we  see 
any  more  than  if  every  soul  of  us  had  been  alive.  We  had 
travelled  a  good  way  before  any  one  offered  to  open  his  mouth  ; 
indeed,  most  of  the  company  were  fast  asleep,  but,  as  I  could 
not  close  my  own  eyes,  and  perceived  the  spirit  who  sat  opposite 
to  me  to  be  likewise  awake,  I  began  to  make  overtures  of 
conversation,  by  complaining  how  dark  it  luas.  "  And  extremely 
cold  too,"  answered  my  fellow-traveller  ;  "  though  I  thank  God, 
as  I  have  no  body,  I  feel  no  inconvenience  from  it :  but  you  will 
believe,  sir,  that  this  frosty  air  must  seem  very  sharp  to  one  just 
issued  forth  out  of  an  oven  ;  for  such  was  the  inflamed  habitation 
I  am  lately  departed  from." — ''  How  did  you  come  to  your  end, 
sir?"  said  I.  "I  was  murdered,  sir,"  answered  the  gentleman. 
"I  am  surprised  then,"  replied  1,  "that  you  did  not  divert 
yourself  by  walking  up  and  down  and  playing  some  merry  tricks 
with  the  murderer." — "  O  sir,"  returned  he,  "  1  had  not  that 
privilege,  I  was  lawfully  put  to  death.  In  short,  a  physician  set 
me  on  fire,  by  giving  me  medicines  to  throw  out  my  distemper. 
I  died  of  a  hot  regimen,  as  they  call  it,  in  the  smallpox." 

One  of  the  spirits  at  that  word  started  up  and  cried  out,  "  the 
smallpox !  bless  me  !  I  hope  I  am  not  in  company  with  that 
distemper,  which  I  have  all  my  life  with  such  caution  avoided, 
and  have  so  happily  escaped  hitherto  ! "  This  fright  set  all  the 
passengers  who  were  awake  into  a  loud  laughter ;  and  the 
gentleman,  recollecting  himself,  with  some  confusion,  and  not 
without  blushing,  asked  pardon,  crying,  "  I  protest  I  dreamt  1 
was  alive." — "  Perhaps,  sir,"  said  I,  "you  died  of  that  distemper, 
which  therefore  made  so  strong  an  impression  on  you." — "  No, 
sir,"  answered  he,  "  I  never  had  it  in  my  hfe  ;  but  the  continual 
and  dreadful  apprehension  it  kept  me  so  long  under  cannot,  I 
see,    be    so    immediately    eradicated.      You    must    know,    sir,    I 


HENR  \ '  FIEL  DING  1 1 7 


avoided  coming  to  London  for  thirty  years  together,  for  fear  of 
the  smallpox,  till  the  most  urgent  business  brought  me  thither 
about  five  days  ago.  I  was  so  dreadfully  afraid  of  this  disease 
that  I  refused  the  second  night  of  my  arrival  to  sup  with  a  friend 
whose  wife  had  recovered  of  it  several  months  before,  and  the 
same  evening  got  a  surfeit  by  eating  too  many  mussels,  which 
brought  me  into  this  good  company." 

"  I  will  lay  a  wager,"  cried  the  spirit  who  sat  next  him, 
"there  is  not  one  in  the  coach  able  to  guess  my  distemper."  I 
desired  the  favour  of  him  to  acquaint  us  with  it,  if  it  was  so 
uncommon.  "  Why,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  died  of  honour." — "  Of 
honour,  sir!"  repeated  I,  with  some  surprise.  "Yes,  sir," 
answered  the  spirit,  "of  honour,  for  1  was  killed  in  a  duel." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  a  fair  spirit,  "  I  was  inoculated  last 
summer,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape  with  a  very  few 
marks  in  my  face.  I  esteemed  myself  now  perfectly  happy,  as  I 
imagined  I  had  no  restraint  to  a  full  enjoyment  of  the  diversions 
of  the  town  ;  but  within  a  few  days  after  my  coming  up  I  caught 
cold  by  overdancing  myself  at  a  ball,  and  last  night  died  of  a 
violent  fever." 

After  a  short  silence  which  now  ensued,  the  fair  spirit  who 
spoke  last,  it  being  now  daylight,  addressed  herself  to  a  female 
who  sat  next  her,  and  asked  her  to  what  chance  they  owed  the 
happiness  of  her  company.  She  answered,  she  apprehended  to 
a  consumption,  but  the  physicians  were  not  agreed  concerning 
her  distemper,  for  she  left  two  of  them  in  a  very  hot  dispute 
about  it  when  she  came  out  of  her  body.  "  And  pray,  madam," 
said  the  same  spirit  to  the  sixth  passenger,  "  how  came  you  to 
leave  the  other  world  ? "  But  that  female  spirit,  screwing  up  her 
mouth,  answered,  she  wondered  at  the  curiosity  of  some  people  ; 
that  perhaps  persons  had  already  heard  some  reports  of  her  death, 
which  were  far  from  being  true  ;  that,  whatever  was  the  occasion 
of  it,  she  was  glad  at  being  delivered  from  a  world  in  which  she 
had  no  pleasure,  and  where  there  was  nothing  but  nonsense  and 
impertinence  ;  particularly  among  her  own  sex,  whose  loose 
conduct  she  had  long  been  entirely  ashamed  of. 

(From  A  Jojirney  from  this  World  to  iJic  Next.) 


ii8  ENGLISH  TROSE 


POET  AND   PLAYER 

The  poet,  addressing  the  player,  proceeded  thus,  "  As  I  was 
saying"  (for  they  had  been  at  this  discourse  all  the  time  of  the 
engagement  above-stairs),  "  the  reason  you  have  no  good  new 
plays  is  evident ;  it  is  from  your  discouragement  of  authors. 
Gentlemen  will  not  write,  sir,  they  will  not  write,  without  the 
expectation  of  fame  or  profit,  or  perhaps  both.  Plays  are  like 
trees,  which  will  not  grow  without  nourishment ;  but  like  mush- 
rooms, they  shoot  up  spontaneously,  as  it  were,  in  a  rich  soil. 
The  muses,  like  vines,  may  be  pruned,  but  not  with  a  hatchet. 
The  town,  like  a  peevish  child,  knows  not  what  it  desires,  and  is 
always  best  pleased  with  a  rattle.  A  farce-writer  hath  indeed 
some  chance  for  success  ;  but  they  have  lost  all  taste  for  the 
sublime.  Though  I  believe  one  reason  of  their  depravity  is  the 
badness  of  the  actors.  If  a  man  writes  hke  an  angel,  sir,  those 
fellows  know  not  how  to  give  a  sentiment  utterance." — "  Not  so 
fast,"  says  the  player  ;  "  the  modern  actors  are  as  good  at  least 
as  their  authors,  nay,  they  come  nearer  their  illustrious  predeces- 
sors ;  and  I  expect  a  Booth  on  the  stage  again,  sooner  than  a 
Shakespeare  or  an  Otway  ;  and  indeed  I  may  turn  your  observa- 
tion against  you,  and  with  truth  say,  that  the  reason  no  authors 
are  encouraged  is  because  we  have  no  good  new  plays." — "  I 
have  not  affirmed  the  contrary,"  said  the  poet ;  "  but  I  am  sur- 
prised you  grow  so  warm  ;  you  cannot  imagine  yourself  interested 
in  this  dispute  ;  I  hope  you  have  a  better  opinion  of  my  taste  than 
to  apprehend  I  squinted  at  yourself.  No,  sir,  if  we  had  six  such 
actors  as  you,  we  should  soon  rival  the  Bettertons  and  Sandfords 
of  former  times  ;  for,  without  a  compliment  to  you,  I  think  it 
impossible  for  any  one  to  have  excelled  you  in  most  of  your  parts. 
Nay,  it  is  solemn  truth,  and  I  have  heard  many,  and  all  great 
judges,  express  as  much  ;  and,  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  tell  you,  I 
think  every  time  I  have  seen  you  lately  you  have  constantly  acquired 
some  new  excellence,  like  a  snow-ball.  You  have  deceived  me  in 
my  estimation  of  perfection,  and  have  outdone  what  I  thought 
inimitable." — "  You  are  as  little  interested,"  answered  the  player, 

"  in  what  I  have  said  of  other  poets  ;  for  d me  if  there  are  not 

many  strokes,  aye,  whole  scenes,  in  your  last  tragedy  which  at 
least  equal  Shakespeare.  There  is  a  delicacy  of  sentiment,  a 
dignity  of  expression  in  it,  which  I  will  own  many  of  our  gentle- 


HENR  V  FIELDING  1 19 


men  did  not  do  adequate  justice  to.  To  confess  the  truth,  they 
are  bad  enough,  and  I  pity  an  author  who  is  present  at  the  murder 
of  his  works." — "  Nay,  it  is  but  seldom  that  it  can  happen," 
returned  the  poet ;  "  the  works  of  most  modern  authors,  hke 
dead-born  children,  cannot  be  murdered.  It  is  such  wretched  half- 
begotten,  half-writ,  lifeless,  spiritless,  low,  grovelling  stuff,  that  I 
almost  pity  the  actor  who  is  obliged  to  get  it  by  heart,  which  must 
be  almost  as  difficult  to  remember  as  words  in  a  language  you  don't 
understand." — "  I  am  sure,"  said  the  player,  "  if  the  sentences 
have  little  meaning  when  they  are  writ,  when  they  are  spoken 
they  have  less.  I  know  scarce  one  who  ever  lays  an  emphasis 
right,  and  much  less  adapts  his  action  to  his  character.  I  have 
seen  a  tender  lover  in  an  attitude  of  fighting  with  his  mistress, 
and  a  brave  hero  suing  to  his  enemy  with  his  sword  in  his  hand. 
I  don't  care  to  abuse  my  profession,  but  rot  me  if  in  my  heart  I 
am  not  inclined  to  the  poet's  side." — "  It  is  rather  generous  in  you 
than  just,"  said  the  poet  ;  "and,  though  I  hate  to  speak  ill  of  any 
person's  production — nay,  I  never  do  it,  nor  will — but  yet  to  do 
justice  to  the  actors,  what  could  Booth  or  Betterton  have  made  of 
such  horrible  stuff  as  Fenton's  Mariamne,  Frowd's  Philotas,  or 
Mallet's  Eurydice  ;  or  those  low,  dirty,  last-dying  speeches,  which 
a  fellow  in  the  city  of  Wapping,  your  Dillo  or  Lillo,  what  was  his 
name,  called  tragedies  ? " — "  Veiy  well,"  says  the  player;  "and 
pray  what  do  you  think  of  such  fellows  as  Quin  and  Delane,  or 
that  face-making  puppy  young  Gibber,  that  ill-looked  dog  Macklin, 
or  that  saucy  slut  Mrs.  Clive  1  What  work  would  they  make 
with  your  Shakespeares,  Otways,  and  Lees  ?  How  would  those 
harmonious  lines  of  the  last  come  from  their  tongues  .'' 

.    .    .    No  more  ;  for  I  disdain 
All  pomp  when  thou  art  by  :  far  be  the  noise 
Of  kings  and  queens  from  us,  whose  gentle  souls 
Our  kinder  fates  have  steer' d  another  way. 
Free  as  the  forest  birds  we'll  pair  together. 
Without  rememb'ring  who  our  fathers  were  : 
Fly  to  the  arbours,  grots,  and  flow'ry  meads  ; 
There  in  soft  murmurs  interchange  our  souls  ; 
Together  drink  the  crystal  of  the  stream, 
Or  taste  the  yellow  fruit  which  autumn  yields. 
And,  when  the  golden  evening  calls  us  home, 
Wing  to  our  downy  nests,  and  sleep  till  morn. 

Or  how  would  this  disdain  of  Otway — ■ 

W'ho'd  be  that  foolish  sordid  thing  called  man  ?" 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


"  Hold  !  hold  !  hold  !  "  said  the  poet.  "  Do  repeat  that  tender 
speech  in  the  third  act  of  my  play  which  you  made  such  a  figure 
in." — "  I  would  willingly,"  said  the  player,  "but  I  have  forgot  it." 
— "  Ay,  you  was  not  quite  perfect  in  it  when  you  played  it,"  cries 
the  poet,  "  or  you  would  have  had  such  an  applause  as  was  never 
given  on  the  stage  ;  an  applause  I  was  extremely  concerned  for 
your  losing." — "  Sure,"  says  the  player,  "  if  I  remember,  that  was 
hissed  more  than  any  passage  in  the  whole  play." — "Ay,  your 
speaking  it  was  hissed,"  said  the  poet. — "  My  speaking  it ! "  said 
the  player. — "  I  mean  your  not  speaking  it,"  said  the  poet.  "  You 
was  out  and  then  they  hissed." — "  They  hissed,  and  then  I  was 
out,  if  I  remember,"  answered  the  player ;  "  and  I  must  say  this 
for  myself,  that  the  whole  audience  allowed  I  did  your  part  justice  ; 
so  don't  lay  the  damnation  of  your  play  to  my  account." — "  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  by  dainnation,"  replied  the  poet. — 
"  Why,  you  know  it  was  acted  but  one  night,"  cried  the  player. — 
"  No,"  said  the  poet,  "  you  and  the  whole  town  were  enemies  ; 
the  pit  were  all  my  enemies,  fellows  that  would  cut  my  throat,  if 
the  fear  of  hanging  did  not  restrain  them.  All  tailors,  sir,  all 
tailors." — "Why  should  the  tailors  be  so  angry  with  you?"  cries 
the  player.  "  I  suppose  you  don't  employ  so  many  in  making 
your  clothes." — "I  admit  your  jest,"  answered  the  poet;  "but 
you  remember  the  affair  as  well  as  myself;  you  know  there  was  a 
party  in  the  pit  and  upper  gallery  that  would  not  suffer  it  to  be 
given  out  again  ;  though  much,  ay  infinitely  the  majority,  all  the 
boxes  in  particular,  were  desirous  of  it  ;  nay,  most  of  the  ladies 
swore  they  would  never  come  to  the  house  till  it  was  acted  again. 
Indeed,  I  must  own  their  policy  was  good  in  not  letting  it  be 
given  out  a  second  time  ;  for  the  rascals  knew  if  it  had  gone  a 
second  night  it  would  have  run  fifty ;  for  if  ever  there  was  distress 
in  a  tragedy — I  am  not  fond  of  my  own  performance  ;  but  if  I 
should  tell  you  what  the  best  judges  said  of  it — Nor  was  it 
entirely  owing  to  my  enemies  neither  that  it  did  not  succeed  on 
the  stage  as  well  as  it  hath  since  among  the  polite  readers  ;  for 
you  cannot  say  it  had  justice  done  it  by  the  performers." — "  I 
think,"  answered  the  player,  "  the  performers  did  the  distress  of  it 
justice  ;  for  I  am  sure  we  were  in  distress  enough,  who  were  pelted 
with  oranges  all  the  last  act  ;  we  all  imagined  it  would  have  been 
the  last  act  of  our  lives." 

{¥xom  Joseph  Andrews.) 


HENRY  FIELDING 


A   POLITICAL  MICROCOSM 

There  resided  in  the  castle  at  the  same  time  with  Mr.  Wild 
one  Roger  Johnson,  a  very  great  man,  who  had  long  been  at  the 
head  of  all  the  prigs  in  Newgate,  and  had  raised  contributions  on 
them.  He  examined  into  the  nature  of  their  defence,  procured 
and  instructed  their  evidence,  and  made  himself,  at  least  in  their 
opinion,  so  necessary  to  them,  that  the  whole  fate  of  Newgate 
seemed  entirely  to  depend  upon  him. 

Wild  had  not  been  long  in  confinement  before  he  began  to 
oppose  this  man.  He  represented  him  to  the  prigs  as  a  fellow 
who,  under  the  plausible  pretence  of  assisting  their  causes,  was 
in  reality  undermining  the  liberties  of  Newgate.  He  at  first 
threw  out  certain  sly  hints  and  insinuations  ;  but,  having  by 
degrees  formed  a  party  against  Roger,  he  one  daj'  assembled 
them  together,  and  spoke  to  them  in  the  following  florid  manner  : 

"  Friends  and  fellow-citizens — The  cause  which  I  am  to 
mention  to  you  this  day  is  of  such  mighty  importance,  that  when 
I  consider  my  own  small  abilities,  I  tremble  with  an  apprehension 
lest  your  safety  may  be  rendered  precarious  by  the  weakness  of 
him  who  hath  undertaken  to  represent  to  you  your  danger. 
Gentlemen,  the  liberty  of  Newgate  is  at  stake  ;  your  privileges 
have  been  long  undermined,  and  are  now  openly  violated  by  one 
man  ;  by  one  who  hath  engrossed  to  himself  the  whole  conduct 
of  your  trials,  under  colour  of  which  he  exacts  what  contributions 
on  you  he  pleases  ;  but  are  those  sums  appropriated  to  the  uses 
for  which  they  are  raised  .''  Your  frequent  convictions  at  the  Old 
Bailey,  those  degradations  of  justice,  must  too  sensibly  and  sorely 
demonstrate  the  contrary.  What  evidence  doth  he  ever  produce 
for  the  prisoner  which  the  prisoner  himself  could  not  have 
provided,  and  often  better  instructed  ?  How  many  noble  youths 
have  there  been  lost  when  a  single  alibi  would  have  saved  them. 
Should  I  be  silent,  nay,  could  your  own  injuries  want  a  tongue  to 
remonstrate,  the  very  breath  which  by  his  neglect  hath  been 
stopped  at  the  cheat  would  cry  out  loudly  against  him.  Nor  is 
the  exorbitancy  of  his  plunders  visible  only  in  the  dreadful 
consequences  it  hath  produced  to  the  prigs,  nor  glares  it  only  in 
the  miseries  brought  on  them  :  it  blazes  forth  in  the  more  desirable 
effects  it  hath  wrought  for  himself,  in  the  rich  perquisites  acquired 
by  it ;   witness  that  silk  night-gown,  that  robe  of  shame,  which,  to 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


his  eternal  dishonour,  he  pubhcly  wears  ;  that  gown  which  I  will 
not  scruple  to  call  the  winding-sheet  of  the  liberties  of  Newgate. 
Is  there  a  prig  who  hath  the  interest  and  honour  of  Newgate  so 
little  at  heart  that  he  can  refrain  from  blushing  when  he  beholds 
that  trojohy,  purchased  with  the  breath  of  so  many  prigs  ?  Nor 
is  this  all.  His  waistcoat  embroidered  with  silk,  and  his  velvet 
cap,  bought  with  the  same  price,  are  ensigns  of  the  same  disgrace. 
Some  would  think  the  rags  which  covered  his  nakedness  when 
first  he  was  committed  hither  well  exchanged  for  these  gaudy 
trappings  ;    but   in   my  eye  no  exchange  can  be  profitable  when 

dishonour  is   the   condition.      If,  therefore,  Newgate "      Here 

the  only  copy  which  we  could  procure  of  this  speech  breaks  off 
abruptly  ;  however,  we  can  assure  the  reader,  from  very  authentic 
information,  that  he  concluded  with  advising  the  prigs  to  put 
their  affairs  into  other  hands.  After  which  one  of  his  party,  as 
had  been  before  concerted,  in  a  very  long  speech  recommended 
him  (Wild  himself)  to  their  choice. 

Newgate  was  divided  into  parties  on  this  occasion,  the  prigs 
on  each  side  representing  their  chief  or  great  man  to  be  the  only 
person  by  whom  the  affairs  of  Newgate  could  be  managed  with 
safety  and  advantage.  The  prigs  had  indeed  very  incompatible 
interests  ;  for  whereas  the  supporters  of  Johnson,  who  was  in  the 
possession  of  the  plunder  of  Newgate,  were  admitted  to  some 
share  under  their  leader,  so  the  abettors  of  Wild  had,  on  his 
promotion,  the  same  views  of  dividing  some  part  of  the  spoil 
among  themselves.  It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  they  were  both 
so  warm  on  each  side.  What  may  seem  more  remarkable  was, 
that  the  debtors,  who  were  entirely  unconcerned  in  the  dispute, 
and  who  were  the  destined  plunder  of  both  parties,  should  interest 
themselves  with  the  utmost  violence,  some  on  behalf  of  Wild,  and 
others  in  favour  of  Johnson.  So  that  all  Newgate  resounded 
with  Wild  for  ever,  Johnson  for  ever.  And  the  poor  debtors 
re-echoed  the  liberties  of  Newgate,  which,  in  the  cant  language, 
signifies  plunder,  as  loudly  as  the  thieves  themselves.  In  short 
such  quarrels  and  animosities  happened  between  them,  that  they 
seemed  rather  the  people  of  two  countries  long  at  war  with  each 
other  than  the  inhabitants  of  the  same  castle. 

Wild's  party  at  length  prevailed,  and  he  succeeded  to  the 
place  and  power  of  Johnson,  whom  he  presently  stripped  of  all 
his  finery  ;  but  when  it  was  proposed  that  he  should  sell  it  and 
divide   the    money    for    the   good   of  the   whole,   he   waived    that 


HENR  Y  FIELDING  123 


motion,  saying  it  was  not  yet  time,  that  he  should  find  a  better 
opportunity,  that  the  clothes  wanted  cleaning,  with  many  other 
pretences,  and  within  two  days,  to  the  surprise  of  many,  he 
appeared  in  them  himself;  for  which  he  vouchsafed  no  other 
apology  than  that  they  fitted  him  much  better  than  they  did 
Johnson,  and  that  they  became  him  in  a  much  more  elegant 
manner. 


( From  Jonathan  I  Vild. ) 


PARTRIDGE  ON   VALOUR 

As  Partridge  was  inhibited  from  that  topic  which  would  have 
first  suggested  itself,  he  fell  upon  that  which  was  next  uppermost 
in  his  mind,  namely,  the  Man  of  the  Hill.  "Certainly,  sir,"  says 
he,  "  that  could  never  be  a  man,  who  dresses  himself  and  lives 
after  such  a  strange  manner,  and  so  unlike  other  folks.  Besides, 
his  diet  as  the  old  woman  told  me,  is  chiefly  upon  herbs,  which  is 
a  fitter  food  for  a  horse  than  a  Christian  ;  nay,  landlord  at  Upton 
says  the  neighbours  thereabouts  have  very  fearful  notions  about 
him.  It  runs  strangely  in  my  head  that  it  must  have  been  some 
spirit,  who  perhaps  might  be  sent  to  forewarn  us  ;  and  who  knows 
but  all  that  matter  which  he  told  us,  of  his  going  to  fight,  and  of 
his  being  taken  prisoner,  and  of  the  great  danger  he  was  in  of 
being  hanged,  might  be  intended  as  a  warning  to  us,  considering 
what  we  are  going  about  ?  Besides,  I  dreamt  of  nothing  all  last 
night  but  of  fighting  ;  and  methought  the  blood  ran  out  of  my 
nose  as  liquor  out  of  a  tap.  Indeed,  sir,  t'nfandiiin,  regina,  jubcs 
renovare  dolorem." 

"  Thy  story,  Partridge,"  answered  Jones,  is  almost  as  ill-applied 
as  thy  Latin.  Nothing  can  be  more  likely  to  happen  than  death 
to  men  who  go  into  battle.  Perhaps  we  shall  both  fall  in  it — 
and  what  then?" — "What  then.?"  replied  Partridge,  "why 
then  there  is  an  end  of  us,  is  there  not  ?  When  1  am  gone,  all 
is  over  with  me.  What  matters  the  cause  to  me,  or  who  gets 
the  victory,  if  I  am  killed  ?  I  shall  never  enjoy  any  advantage 
from  it.  What  are  all  the  ringing  of  bells,  and  bonfires  to 
one  that  is  six  foot  under  ground  ?  there  will  be  an  end  of  poor 
Partridge." — "  And  an  end  of  poor  Partridge,"  cries  Jones,  "  there 
must  be  one  time  or  other.      If  you   love    Latin  I  will   repeat   you 


124  ENGLISH  PROSE 


some  fine  lines  out  of  Horace,  which  would  inspire  courage  into  a 
coward. 

'  Duke  et  decotnim  est  pi'o  pat  rid  mori. 
Mors  et  fugacem  persequitur  viruni 
Nee  parcit  iinbeUis  j uvcntee 
Poplitibus  tiniidoqne  tergo.' 

"  I  wish  you  would  construe  them,"  cries  Partridge,  "  for 
Horace  is  a  hard  author,  and  I  cannot  understand  as  you  repeat 
them." 

"  I  will  repeat  you  a  liad  imitation,  or  rather  paraphrase,  of  my 
own,"  said  Jones,  "for  I  am  but  an  indifferent  poet  : 

'  Who  would  not  die  in  his  dear  country's  cause  ? 
Since,  if  base  fear  his  dastard  step  withdraws, 
From  death  he  cannot  fly  : — One  common  grave 
Receives,  at  last,  the  coward  and  the  brave.'  " 

"That's  very  certain,"  cries  Partridge.  "Ay,  sure.  Mors 
omnibus  co»imitnis  j  but  there  is  a  great  difterence  between  dying 
in  one's  bed  a  great  many  years  hence,  like  a  good  Christian,  with 
all  our  friends  crying  about  us,  and  being  shot  to-day  or  to-morrow 
like  a  mad  dog  ;  or  perhaps  hacked  in  twenty  pieces  with  the 
sword,  and  that  too  before  we  have  repented  of  all  our  sins.  O 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  !  to  be  sure  the  soldiers  are  a  wicked 
kind  of  people.  I  never  loved  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them. 
I  could  hardly  bring  myself  ever  to  look  upon  them  as  Christians. 
There  is  nothing  but  cursing  and  swearing  among  them.  I  wish 
your  honour  would  repent,  I  heartily  wish  you  would  repent 
before  it  is  too  late,  and  not  think  of  going  among  them.  Evil 
communication  corrupts  good  manners.  That  is  my  principal 
reason.  For  as  for  that  matter,  I  am  no  more  afraid  than  another 
man,  not  I,  as  to  matter  of  that.  I  know  all  human  flesh  must 
die  ;  but  yet  a  man  may  live  many  years  for  all  that.  Why,  I 
am  a  middle-aged  man  now,  and  yet  I  may  live  a  great 
number  of  years.  I  have  read  of  several  who  have  lived  to  be 
above  a  hundred.  Not  that  I  hope,  I  mean  that  I  promise 
myself,  to  live  to  any  such  age  as  that,  neither.  But  if  it  be  only 
to  eighty  or  ninety.  Heaven  be  praised,  that  is  a  great  way  off 
yet  ;  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  dying  then,  no  more  than  another 
man  ;  but,  surely,  to  tempt  death  before  a  man's  time  is  come 
seems  to  me  downright  wickedness  and  presumption.  I>esides,  if 
it  was  to  do  any  good  indeed  ;   but,  let  the  cause  be  what  it  will. 


HENRY  FIELDING  125 


what  mighty  matter  of  good  can  two  people  do  ?  and,  for  my  part, 
I  understand  nothing  of  it.  I  never  fired  off  a  gun  above  ten 
times  in  my  Hfe,  and  then  it  was  not  charged  with  bullets.  And 
for  the  sword,  I  never  learned  to  fence,  and  know  nothing  of  the 
matter.  And  then  there  are  those  cannons,  which  certainly  it 
must  be  thought  the  highest  presumption  to  go  in  the  way  of ; 
and  nobody  but  a  madman — I  ask  pardon  ;  upon  my  soul  I  meant 
no  harm  :  I  beg  I  may  not  throw  your  honour  into  another 
passion." 

"  Be  under  no  apprehension,  Partridge,"  cries  Jones  ;  "  I  am 
now  so  well  convinced  of  thy  cowardice,  that  thou  couldst  not 
provoke  me  on  any  account." — "  Your  honour,"  answered  he, 
"may  call  me  a  coward,  or  anything  else  you  please.  If  loving 
to  sleep  in  a  whole  skin  makes  a  man  a  coward,  non  imniiincs  ab 
illis  malts  sumus.  I  never  read  in  my  grammar  that  a  man  can't 
be  a  good  man  without  fighting.  Vir  bonus  est  quis  ?  Qui 
coiisulta  patruin,  qui  leges  juraque  scrvat.  Not  a  word  of 
fighting  ;  and  I  am  sure  the  Scripture  is  so  much  against  it  that 
a  man  shall  never  persuade  me  he  is  a  good  Christian  while  he 
sheds  Christian  blood." 


(From  Tom  Jones. ) 


PATERNAL  ADVICE 

The  doctor's  answer  was,  that  he  would  wait  on  the  lady  directly  ; 
and  then,  turning  to  his  friend,  he  asked  him  if  he  would  not  take 
a  walk  in  the  park  before  dinner.  "  I  must  go,"  says  he,  "  to 
the  lady  who  was  with  us  last  night  ;  for  I  am  afraid,  by  her 
letter,  some  bad  accident  hath  happened  to  her.  Come,  young 
gentleman,  I  spoke  a  little  too  hastily  to  you  just  now  ;  but  1  ask 
your  pardon.  Some  allowance  must  be  made  to  the  warmth  of 
your  blood.      I  hope  we  shall  in  time  both  think  alike." 

The  old  gentleman  made  his  friend  another  compliment  ;  and 
the  young  one  declared  he  hoped  he  should  always  think,  and  act 
too,  with  the  dignity  becoming  his  cloth.  After  which  the  doctor 
took  his  leave  for  a  while,  and  went  to  Amelia's  lodgings. 

As  soon  as  he  was  g-one  the  old  gentleman  fell  very  severely 
on  his  son.  "  Tom,"  says  he,  "  how  can  you  be  such  a  fool  to 
undo,  by  your  perverseness,  all  that  I  have  been  doing  .^  Why 
will  you  not  learn  to  study  mankind  with  the  attention  which  I 


126  ENGLISH  PROSE 


have  employed  to  that  purpose  ?  Do  you  think,  if  I  had  affi^onted 
this  obstinate  old  fellow  as  you  do,  I  should  ever  have  engaged 
his  friendship  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  sir,"  said  Tom  :  "  I  have  not  studied  six 
years  at  the  University  to  give  up  my  sentiments  to  every  one. 
It  is  true,  indeed,  he  put  together  a  set  of  sounding  words  ;  but, 
in  the  main,  I  never  heard  any  one  talk  more  foolishly." 

"  What  of  that  ?  "  cries  the  father  ;  "  I  never  told  you  he  was 
a  wise  man,  nor  did  I  ever  think  him  so.  If  he  had  any  under- 
standing, he  would  have  been  a  bishop  long  ago,  to  my  certain 
knowledge.  But,  indeed,  he  hath  been  always  a  fool  in  private 
life  ;  for  I  question  whether  he  is  worth  ^loo  in  the  world,  more 
than  his  annual  income.  He  hath  given  away  above  half  his 
fortune  to  the  Lord  knows  who.  I  believe  I  have  had  above 
^200  of  him,  first  and  last ;  and  would  you  lose  such  a  milch- 
cow  as  this  for  want  of  a  few  compliments  ?  Indeed,  Tom,  thou 
art  as  great  a  simpleton  as  himself.  How  do  you  expect  to  rise 
in  the  church  if  you  cannot  temporise  and  give  into  the  opinions 
of  your  superiors  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  cries  Tom,  "  what  you  mean  by  my 
superiors.  In  one  sense,  I  own,  a  doctor  of  divinity  is  superior 
to  a  bachelor  of  arts,  and  so  far  I  am  ready  to  allow  his 
superiority  ;  but  I  understand  Greek  and  Hebrew  as  well  as  he, 
and  will  maintain  my  opinion  against  him,  or  any  other  in  the 
schools. 

"  Tom,"  cries  the  old  gentleman,  "  till  thou  gettest  the  better 
of  thy  conceit  I  shall  never  have  any  hopes  of  thee.  If  thou  art 
wise,  thou  wilt  think  every  man  thy  superior  of  whom  thou  canst 
get  anything  ;  at  least  thou  wilt  persuade  him  that  thou  thinkest 
so,  and  that  is  sufficient.      Tom,  Tom,  thou  hast  no  policy  in  thee." 

"  What  have  I  been  learning  these  seven  years,"  answered  he, 
"in  the  University?  However,  father,  I  can  account  for  your 
opinion.  It  is  the  common  failing  of  old  men  to  attribute  all 
wisdom  to  themselves.  Nestor  did  it  long  ago  ;  but  if  you  will 
inquire  my  character  at  college,  I  fancy  you  will  not  think  I  want 
to  go  to  school  again." 

The  father  and  the  son  then  went  to  take  their  walk,  during 
which  the  former  repeated  many  good  lessons  of  policy  to  his  son, 
not  greatly  perhaps  to  his  edification.  In  truth,  if  the  old  gentle- 
man's fondness  had  not  in  a  great  measure  blinded  him  to  the 
imperfections   of  his   son,  he  would  have   soon   perceived  that  he 


HENK  V  FIEL  DING  1 27 


was   sowing   all   his    instructions  in  a   soil  so   choked  with  self- 
conceit  that  it  was  utterly  impossible  they  should  ever  bear  any 

^"■"i^-  (From  Amelia.) 


MRS.    FRANCIS  OF   RYDE 

We  brought  with  us  our  provisions  from  the  ship,  so  that  we 
wanted  nothing  but  a  fire  to  dress  our  dinner,  and  a  room  in 
which  we  might  eat  it.  In  neither  of  these  had  we  any  reason  to 
apprehend  a  disappointment,  our  dinner  consisting  only  of  beans 
and  bacon  ;  and  the  worst  apartment  in  his  majesty's  dominions, 
either  at  home  or  abroad,  being  fully  sufficient  to  answer  our 
present  ideas  of  delicacy. 

Unluckily,  however,  we  were  disappointed  in  both  ;  for  when 
we  arrived  about  four  at  our  inn,  exulting  in  the  hopes  of 
immediately  seeing  our  beans  smoking  on  the  table,  we  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  them  on  the  table  indeed,  but  without 
that  circumstance  which  would  have  made  the  sight  agreeable, 
being  in  the  same  state  in  which  we  had  dispatched  them  from 
our  ship. 

In  excuse  for  this  delay,  though  we  had  exceeded,  almost 
purposely,  the  time  appointed,  and  our  provision  had  arrived 
three  hours  before,  the  mistress  of  the  house  acquainted  us  that 
it  was  not  for  want  of  time  to  dress  them  that  they  were  not 
ready,  but  for  fear  of  their  being  cold  or  overdone  before  we 
should  come  ;  which  she  assured  us  was  much  worse  than  wait- 
ing a  few  minutes  for  our  dinner  ;  an  observation  so  very  just, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  find  any  objection  to  it  ;  but,  indeed,  it 
was  not  altogether  so  proper  at  this  time,  for  we  had  given  the 
most  absolute  orders  to  have  them  ready  at  four,  and  had  been 
ourselves,  not  without  much  care  and  difficulty,  most  exactly 
punctual  in  keeping  to  the  very  minute  of  our  appointment.  But 
tradesmen,  inn-keepers,  and  servants  never  care  to  indulge  us  in 
matters  contrary  to  our  true  interest,  which  they  always  know 
better  than  ourselves  ;  nor  can  any  bribes  corrupt  them  to  go  out 
of  their  way  whilst  they  are  consulting  our  good  in  our  own 
despite. 

Our  disappointment  in  the  other  particular,  in  defiance  of  out- 
humility,  as  it  was  more  extraordinary,  was  more  provoking.      In 


128  ENGLISH  PROSE 


short,  Mrs.  Francis  (for  that  was  the  name  of  the  good  woman  of 
the  house)  no  sooner  received  the  news  of  our  intended  arrival 
than  she  considered  more  the  gentihty  than  the  humanity  of  her 
guests,  and  appHed  herself  not  to  that  which  kindles  but  to  that 
which  extinguishes  fire,  and,  forgetting  to  put  on  her  pot,  fell  to 
washing  her  house. 

As  the  messenger  who  had  brought  my  venison  was  impatient 
to  be  dispatched,  I  ordered  it  to  be  brought  and  laid  on  the  table 
in  the  room  where  I  was  seated  ;  and  the  table  not  being  large 
enough,  one  side,  and  that  a  very  bloody  one,  was  laid  on  the 
brick  floor.  I  then  ordered  Mrs.  Francis  to  be  called  in,  in 
order  to  give  her  instructions  concerning  it  ;  in  particular,  what  I 
would  have  roasted  and  what  baked  ;  concluding  that  she  would 
be  highly  pleased  with  the  prospect  of  so  much  money  being 
spent  in  her  house  as  she  might  have  now  reason  to  expect,  if 
the  wind  continued  only  a  few  days  longer  to  blow  from  the 
same  points  whence  it  had  blown  for  several  weeks  past. 

I  soon  saw  good  cause,  I  must  confess,  to  despise  my  own 
sagacity.  Mrs.  Francis,  having  received  her  orders,  without 
making  any  answer,  snatched  the  side  from  the  floor,  which 
remained  stained  with  blood,  and,  bidding  a  servant  to  take  up 
that  on  the  talale,  left  the  room  with  no  pleasant  countenance, 
muttering  to  herself  that,  "had  she  known  the  litter  which  was 
to  have  been  made,  she  would  not  have  taken  such  pains  to  wash 
her  house  that  morning.  If  this  was  gentility,  much  good  may 
it  do  such  gentlefolks  ;  for  her  part  she  had  no  notion  of  it." 

From  these  murmurs  I  received  two  hints.  The  one,  that 
it  was  not  from  a  mistake  of  our  inclination  that  the  good  woman 
had  starved  us,  but  from  wisely  consulting  her  own  dignity,  or 
rather  perhaps  her  vanity,  to  which  our  hunger  was  offered  up  as 
a  sacrifice.  The  other,  that  I  was  now  sitting  in  a  damp  room, 
a  circumstance,  though  it  had  hitherto  escaped  my  notice  from 
the  colour  of  the  bricks,  which  was  by  no  means  to  be  neglected 
in  a  valetudinary  state. 

My  wife,  who,  besides  discharging  excellently  well  her  own 
and  all  the  tender  offices  becoming  the  female  character ;  who, 
besides  being  a  faithful  friend,  an  amiable  companion,  and  a 
tender  nurse,  could  likewise  supply  the  wants  of  a  decrepit 
husband,  and  occasionally  perform  his  part,  had,  before  this, 
discovered  the  immoderate  attention  to  neatness  in  Mrs.  Francis 
and    provided    against    its    ill    consequences.       She    had    found, 


HENR  V  FIELDING  129 


though  not  under  the  same  roof,  a  very  snug  apartment  belonging 
to  Mr.  Francis,  and  which  had  escaped  the  mop  by  his  wife's 
being  satisfied  it  could  not  possibly  be  visited  by  gentlefolks. 

This  was  a  dry,  warm,  oaken-floored  barn,  lined  on  both  sides 
with  wheaten  straw,  and  opening  at  one  end  with  a  green  field 
and  a  beautiful  prospect.  Here,  without  hesitation,  she  ordered 
the  cloth  to  be  laid,  and  came  hastily  to  snatch  me  from  worse 
perils  by  water  than  the  common  dangers  of  the  sea. 

Mrs.  Francis,  who  could  not  trust  her  own  ears,  or  could  not 
believe  a  footman  in  so  extraordinary  a  phenomenon,  followed 
my  wife,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  indeed  ordered  the  cloth  to  be 
laid  in  the  barn.''  She  answered  in  the  affirmative;  upon  which 
Mrs.  Francis  declared  she  would  not  dispute  her  pleasure,  but  it 
was  the  first  time  she  believed  that  quality  had  ever  preferred  a 
barn  to  a  house.  She  showed  at  the  same  time  the  most  preg- 
nant marks  of  contempt,  and  again  lamented  the  labour  she  had 
undergone  through  her  ignorance  of  the  absurd  taste  of  her  guests. 

At  length,  we  were  seated  in  one  of  the  most  pleasant  spots,  I 
believe,  in  the  kingdom,  and  were  regaled  with  our  beans  and 
bacon,  in  which  there  was  nothing  deficient  but  the  c|uantity. 
This  defect  was  however  so  deplorable  that  we  had  consumed 
our  whole  dish  before  we  had  visibly  lessened  our  hunger.  We 
now  waited  with  impatience  the  arrival  of  our  second  course, 
which  necessity,  and  not  luxury,  had  dictated.  This  was  a  joint 
of  mutton  which  Mrs.  Francis  had  been  ordered  to  provide  ;  but 
when,  being  tired  with  expectation,  we  ordered  our  servants  to 
see  for  something  else  we  were  informed  that  there  was  nothing 
else  ;  on  which  Mrs.  Francis,  being  summoned,  declared  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  mutton  to  be  had  at  Ryde.  When  I 
expressed  some  astonishment  at  their  having  no  butcher  in  a 
village  so  situated,  she  answered  they  had  a  very  good  one,  and 
one  that  killed  all  sorts  of  meat  in  season,  beef  two  or  three  times 
a  year,  and  mutton  the  whole  year  round  ;  but  that  it  being  then 
beans  and  peas  time,  he  killed  no  meat  by  reason  he  was  not 
sure  of  selling  it.  This  she  had  not  thought  worthy  of  communica- 
tion, any  more  than  there  lived  a  fisherman  at  next  door,  who  was 
then  provided  with  plenty  of  soles,  and  whitings,  and  lobsters,  far 
superior  to  those  which  adorn  a  city  feast.  This  discovery  being 
made  by  accident,  we  completed  the  best,  the  pleasantest,  and 
the  merriest  meal,  with  more  appetite,  more  real  solid  luxury,  and 
more  festivity,  than  was  ever  seen  in  an  entertainment  at  White's. 

VOL.  IV  K 


I30  ENGLISH  PROSE 


It  may  be  wondered  at,  perhaps,  that  Mrs.  Francis  should  be 
so  neghgent  of  providing  for  her  guests,  as  she  may  seem  to  be 
thus  inattentive  to  her  own  interest  ;  but  this  was  not  the  case  ; 
for,  having  clapped  a  poll-tax  on  our  heads  at  our  arrival,  and 
determined  at  what  price  to  discharge  our  bodies  from  her  house, 
the  less  she  suffered  any  other  to  share  in  the  levy  the  clearer  it 
came  into  her  own  pocket ;  and  that  it  was  better  to  get  twelve 
pence  in  a  shilling  than  ten  pence,  which  latter  would  be  the 
case  if  she  afforded  us  fish  at  any  rate. 

(From  A  Voyage  to  Lisbon.^ 


THE  GIVE-AND-TAKE  OF   FRIENDSHIP 

It  is  possible,  however,  that  Mr.  AUworthy  saw  enough  to  render 
him  a  little  uneasy  ;  for  we  are  not  always  to  conclude  that  a 
wise  man  is  not  hurt,  because  he  doth  not  cry  out  and  lament 
himself,  like  those  of  a  childish  or  effeminate  temper.  But  indeed 
it  is  possible  he  might  see  some  faults  in  the  captain  without  any 
uneasiness  at  all  ;  for  men  of  true  wisdom  and  goodness  are 
contented  to  take  persons  and  things  as  they  are,  without  com- 
plaining of  their  imperfections,  or  attempting  to  amend  them. 
They  can  see  a  fault  in  a  friend,  a  relation,  or  an  acquaintance, 
without  ever  mentioning  it  to  the  parties  themselves,  or  to  any 
others  ;  and  this  often  without  lessening  their  affection.  Indeed, 
unless  great  discernment  be  tempered  with  this  overlooking  dis- 
position, we  ought  never  to  contract  friendship  but  with  a  degree 
of  folly  which  we  can  deceive :  for  I  hope  my  friends  will  pardon 
me  when  I  declare,  1  know  none  of  them  without  a  fault ;  and  I 
should  be  sorry  if  I  could  imagine  I  had  any  friend  who  could 
not  see  mine.  Forgiveness  of  this  kind  we  give  and  demand  in 
turn.  It  is  an  exercise  of  friendship,  and  perhaps  none  of  the 
least  pleasant.  And  this  forgiveness  we  must  bestow,  without 
desire  of  amendment.  There  is,  perhaps  no  surer  mark  of  folly, 
than  an  attempt  to  correct  the  natural  infirmities  of  those  we  love. 
The  finest  composition  of  human  nature,  as  well  as  the  finest 
china,  may  have  a  flaw  in  it  ;  and  this,  I  am  afraid,  in  either 
case,  is  equally  incurable  ;  though,  nevertheless,  the  pattern  may 
remain  of  the  highest  value.  (From  Tom  Jones.) 


HENRY  FIELDING  131 


THE   QUALIFICATIONS  OF  THE   HISTORIAN 

To  prevent  therefore,  for  the  future,  such  intemperate  abuses  of 
leisure,  of  letters,  and  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  especially  as  the 
world  seems  at  present  to  be  more  than  usually  threatened  with 
them,  I  shall  here  venture  to  mention  some  qualifications,  every 
one  of  which  arc  in  a  pretty  high  degree  necessary  to  this  order 
of  historians. 

The  first  is,  genius,  without  a  full  vein  of  which  no  study,  says 
Horace,  can  avail  us.  By  genius  I  would  understand  that  power 
or  rather  those  powers  of  the  niind,  which  are  capable  of  pene- 
trating into  all  things  within  our  reach  and  knowledge,  and  of 
distinguishing  their  essential  differences.  These  are  no  other 
than  invention  and  judgment ;  and  they  are  both  called  by  the 
collective  name  of  genius,  as  they  are  of  those  gifts  of  nature 
which  we  bring  with  us  into  the  world.  Concerning  each  of 
which  many  seem  to  have  fallen  into  very  great  errors  ;  for  by 
invention,  I  believe,  is  generally  understood  a  creative  faculty, 
which  would  indeed  prove  most  romance  writers  to  have  the 
highest  pretensions  to  it  ;  whereas  by  invention  is  really  meant 
no  more  (and  so  the  word  signifies)  than  discovery,  or  finding 
out ;  or  to  explain  it  at  large,  a  quick  and  sagacious  penetration 
into  the  true  essence  of  all  the  objects  of  our  contemplation. 
This,  I  think,  can  rarely  exist  without  the  concomitancy  of 
judgment ;  for  how  we  can  be  said  to  have  discovered  the  true 
essence  of  two  things  without  discerning  their  difiference,  seems  to 
me  hard  to  conceive.  Now  this  last  is  the  undisputed  province 
of  judgment,  and  yet  some  few  men  of  wit  have  agreed  with  all 
the  dull  fellows  in  the  world  in  representing  these  two  to  have 
been  seldom  or  never  the  property  of  one  and  the  same  person. 

But  though  they  should  be  so,  they  are  not  sufficient  for  our 
purpose,  without  a  good  share  of  learning  ;  for  which  I  could 
again  cite  the  authority  of  Horace,  and  of  many  others,  if  any 
was  necessary  to  prove  that  tools  are  of  no  service  to  a  workman, 
when  they  are  not  sharpened  by  art,  or  when  he  wants  rules  to 
direct  him  in  his  work,  or  hath  no  matter  to  work  upon.  All 
these  uses  are  supplied  by  learning  ;  for  nature  can  only  furnish 
us  with  capacity  ;  or,  as  I  have  chose  to  illustrate  it,  with  the 
tools   of  our    profession  ;    learning  must    fit    them   for  use,   must 


132  ENGLISH  PROSE 


direct  them  in  it,  and,  lastly,  must  contribute  part  at  least  of  the 
materials.  A  competent  knowledge  of  history  and  of  the  belles- 
lettres  is  here  absolutely  necessary  ;  and  without  this  share  of 
knowledge  at  least,  to  affect  the  character  of  an  historian  is  as 
vain  as  to  endeavour  at  building  a  house  without  timber  or 
mortar,  or  brick  or  stone.  Homer  and  Milton,  who,  though  they 
added  the  ornament  of  numbers  to  their  works,  were  both  his- 
torians of  our  order,  were  masters  of  all  the  learning  of  their 
times. 

Again  there  is  another  sort  of  knowledge,  beyond  the  power 
of  learning  to  bestow,  and  this  is  to  be  had  by  conversation.  So 
necessary  is  this  to  the  understanding  the  characters  of  men, 
that  none  are  more  ignorant  of  them  than  those  learned  pedants 
whose  lives  have  been  entirely  consumed  in  colleges,  and  among 
books  ;  for  however  exquisitely  human  nature  may  have  been 
described  by  writers,  the  true  practical  system  can  be  learnt  only 
in  the  world.  Indeed  the  like  happens  in  every  other  kind  of 
knowledge.  Neither  physic  nor  law  are  to  be  practically  known 
from  books.  Nay,  the  farmer,  the  planter,  the  gardener,  must 
perfect  by  experience  what  he  hath  acquired  the  rudiments  of  by 
reading.  How  accurately  soever  the  ingenious  Mr.  Miller  may 
have  described  the  plant,  he  himself  would  advise  his  disciple  to 
see  it  in  the  garden.  As  we  must  perceive,  that,  after  the  nicest 
strokes  of  a  Shakespeare  or  a  Jonson,  of  a  Wycherly  or  an  Otway, 
some  touches  of  nature  will  escape  the  reader,  which  the  judicious 
action  of  a  Garrick,  of  a  Gibber,  or  a  Glive,  can  convey  to  him  ; 
so,  on  the  real  stage,  the  character  shows  himself  in  a  stronger 
and  bolder  light  than  he  can  be  described.  And  if  this  be  the 
case  in  those  fine  and  nervous  descriptions  which  great  authors 
themselves  have  taken  from  life,  how  much  more  strongly  will  it 
hold  when  the  writer  himself  takes  his  lines  not  from  nature,  but 
from  books  ?  Such  characters  are  only  the  faint  copy  of  a  copy, 
and  can  have  neither  the  justness  nor  spirit  of  an  original. 

Now  this  conversation  in  our  historian  must  be  universal,  that 
is,  with  all  ranks  and  degrees  of  men  ;  for  the  knowledge  of  what 
is  called  high  life  will  not  instruct  him  in  low  ;  nor,  e  converso, 
will  his  being  acquainted  with  the  inferior  part  of  mankind  teach 
him  the  manners  of  the  superior.  And  though  it  may  be  thought 
that  the  knowledge  of  either  may  sufficiently  enable  him  to 
describe  at  least  that  in  which  he  hath  been  conversant,  yet  he 
will   even  here  fall  greatly  short   of  perfection  ;   for  the   follies  of 


HENRY  FIELDING  133 


either  rank  do  in  reality  illustrate  each  other.  For  instance  the 
affectation  of  high  life  appears  more  glaring  and  ridiculous  from 
the  simplicity  of  the  low ;  and  again,  the  rudeness  and  barbarity 
of  this  latter  strikes  with  much  stronger  ideas  of  absurdity,  when 
contrasted  with,  and  opposed  to,  the  politeness  which  controls  the 
former.  Besides,  to  say  the  truth,  the  manners  of  our  historian 
will  be  improved  by  both  these  conversations  ;  for  in  the  one  he 
will  easily  find  examples  of  plainness,  honesty,  and  sincerity  ;  in 
the  other  of  refinement,  elegance,  and  a  liberality  of  spirit ;  which 
last  quality  I  myself  have  scarce  ever  seen  in  men  of  low  birth 
and  education. 

Nor  will  all  the  qualities  I  have  hitherto  given  my  historian 
avail  him,  unless  he  have  what  is  generally  meant  by  a  good 
heart,  and  be  capable  of  feeling.  The  author  who  will  make  me 
weep,  says  Horace,  must  first  weep  himself.  In  reality,  no  man 
can  paint  a  distress  well  which  he  doth  not  feel  while  he  is  paint- 
ing it  ;  nor  do  I  doubt,  but  that  the  most  pathetic  and  affecting 
scenes  have  been  writ  with  tears.  In  the  same  manner  it  is  with 
the  ridiculous.  I  am  convinced  I  never  make  my  reader  laugh 
heartily  but  where  I  have  laughed  before  him  ;  unless  it  should 
happen  at  any  time,  that  instead  of  laughing  with  me  he  should 
be  inclined  to  lauuh  at  me. 


(From  the  Same.) 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

[Samuel  Johnson  was  born  at  Lichfield  in  1709,  and  after  a  desultory- 
education  in  various  schools,  entered  at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  in  1728, 
but  left  in  1731,  without  taking  his  degree.  After  endeavouring  for  a  time  to 
gain  his  living  as  a  schoolmaster,  he  came  to  London,  and  spent  some  5'ears 
of  exceeding  hardship  and  direst  poverty  as  a  bookseller's  hack.  In  1735  he 
published  a  translation  of  Lobo's  Voyage  to  Abyssinia,  and  for  some  time 
contributed  to  the  pages  of  the  Gentleman' s  Magazine,  writing  the  Debates  in 
the  Senate  of  Lilliput,  which  were  intended  to  represent  the  speeches  actually 
delivered,  but  not  then  reported,  in  the  House  of  Commons.  In  1738  he 
published  London,  an  imitation  of  the  third  Satire  of  Juvenal  ;  in  1749,  his 
second  conspicuous  poem.  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  an  imitation  of  the 
tenth  Satire  ;  and  in  the  same  year  appeared  Irene,  a  tragedy,  which  was 
brought  out  by  his  friend  David  Garrick,  but  was  entirely  unsuccessful.  He 
had  before  this  projected  the  Dictionary,  the  chief  monumeilt  of  that  strenuous 
literary  toil  which  he  occasionally  exerted,  though  naturally  detesting  it  ;  and 
the  work  was  accomplished  in  1755.  Meantime  he  had  written  the  Rambler, 
a  periodical  series  of  essays  from  1750  to  1752  ;  had  contributed  to  the 
Adventurer,  and  projected  an  edition  of  Shakespeare.  In  1758  he  wrote  the 
Idler,  another  series  of  periodical  essays  ;  and  in  1759,  in  feverish  haste  and 
under  the  pressure  of  poverty,  he  produced  Rasselas.  The  grant  of  a  pension 
of  ;^300  a  year  soon  after  relieved  him  of  the  burden  of  poverty  :  he  had 
achieved  the  rank  of  undisputed  dictator  in  the  world  of  letters,  not  only  by 
his  wide,  though  discursive,  learning,  but  also  by  the  force  of  his  imposing 
personality  and  his  conversational  supremacy  ;  and  he  became  more  and  more 
averse  to  labour,  both  from  constitutional  bias  and  social  occupation.  He 
intervened  by  many  pamphlets  in  the  political  controversies  of  the  day,  and  in 
1780  completed  the  Lives  of  the  Poets, — that  one  of  his  works  which  has 
stirred  most  of  controversy,  and  has  at  the  same  time  compelled  most  of 
admiration  ;  written  with  the  ease  and  vigour  of  one  who  drew  only  from  his 
own  resources  of  wide  reading,  bold  and  incisive  critical  faculty,  and  abundant 
humour,  and  who  scorned  the  humbler  methods  of  careful  and  minute  research. 
He  died  in  London  in  1784.] 

Johnson  stands  out  pre-eminently  as  the  one  man  for  whom 
biography  has  done  more  than  she  has  done  for  any  other. 
By  her  help  he  is  no  mere  name  in  literary  history,  Init  a  personal 


136  ENGLISH  PROSE 


friend  and  aquaintance,  whose  strength  and  whose  weakness  we 
know  by  heart ;  whose  picture  is  impressed  upon  us  down  to  the 
smallest  details  with  a  vivid  force.      The  powerful  personality  of 
the  man,  and  the  perfection  of  the  portrait,  have  obscured  the 
fame  that  properly  belongs  to  him  as  an  author ;  and  the  popular 
notion  of  his  work  is  based  upon  little  more  than  a  superficial 
tradition,  which  is  rarely  corrected  by  any  real  familiarity  with 
his  writings.      Johnson  is  conceived  as  a  man  of  a  pedantic  turn  of 
mind,  cumbrous  in  his  ideas  and  inflated  in  his  diction  ;  the  slave 
of  convention,   the   enemy   of  humour,   dictatorial    in   argument, 
without    tolerance  for   the   graces  of  simplicity,   and   lacking  all 
keenness  of  critical  insight.      It  would   be  hard  to  conceive  any 
picture  more  unlike  the  truth.      Johnson  rightly  despised  the  easy 
triumph' of  paradox  and  eccentricity.      He  saw — ^just  as  the  best 
of  the  previous  generation  had  seen — that  excellence  in  literature 
must  be  based  on  form,  and  that  its  advances,  to  be  sure,  must 
be  secured  by  rigid  adherence  to  rule.      The  masters  of  English 
prose   in   the  Augustan  age  had   all   of  them  protested   against 
anarchy  in  literature,   and  with  all  their  variety,  they  had  been 
careful   to   claim   for   themselves  no   right   to    set   convention  at 
defiance.       Dryden,    Swift,    and   Addison    had    never    permitted 
themselves  to  forget  that  English  prose  had  to  obey  a  certain  law 
that  was  fixing  on  it   more  and   more  of  order  and    regularity. 
They  had,  it  is  true,  by  their  genius,  breathed  into  that  order  and 
regularity  their  own  force,  and  directness,   and  easy  familiarity. 
But  these  last  were  the  supreme  effect  of  their  own  individual 
genius  :   neither  the  impetuous  flow  of  Dryden's  prose,  nor  the 
easy  lissomeness  of  Swift's,  nor  the  delicate  conversational  tone 
of  Addison's,   could  repeat  or  perpetuate  themselves  in  English 
prose,  and  establish  a  common  model  for  all  time.      What  was 
necessary  in  the  generation  when  Johnson  wrote,  was  some  com- 
manding authority  that  might  set  a  standard  of  prose  style,  that 
might  establish  its  laws  beyond  all  gainsaying,  and  that  by  the 
force  of  its  own  virility  might  compel  ol^edience.      This  was  just 
what  Johnson  did.      It  was  hardly  possible  that  this  work  could 
be  done  without   occasional  austerity.       Prose   that   aimed  at  a 
certain  formal  sequence,   that    preserved   an  equable   balance  of 
clause  against  clause,  that  imposed  a  certain  uniformity  in  the 
use  of  pronouns,  and  that  sought  to  impress  by  clear  and  forcible 
antithesis,  could  not  avoid  fomiality.     The  mannerisms  are  apt 
to  assume  undue  prominence,  and  lend  themselves  to  imitation 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  137 


and  to  parody.  The  popular  impression  ends  there.  It  fancies 
that  it  has  caught  the  trick  of  Johnson's  style  when  it  has 
adopted  a  certain  arrangement  of  pronouns,  when  it  has 
marshalled  the  sentences  in  well-drilled  parallels  of  antithetical 
clauses,  when  it  has  sprinkled  the  whole  with  sesquipedalian 
words,  and  given  an  air  of  pedantic  solemnity  to  the  treatment 
of  the  subject.  This  is  to  miss  all  that  is  really  characteristic  in 
Johnson's  style.  Our  debt  to  him  is  twofold.  In  the  first  place, 
he  preserved  us  against  the  inevitable  triviality  and  feebleness 
that  would  have  come  from  the  imitation  of  Addison's  prose  by 
the  ordinary  writer,  who  had  not  the  secret  of  Addison's  genius. 
Had  not  such  a  dictator  as  Johnson  arisen,  English  prose  would 
inevitably  have  dwindled  into  decay,  pleasing  itself  all  the  while 
with  the  fancy  that  it  was  repeating  the  subtle  and  inimitable 
achievements  of  the  preceding  generation.  In  the  next  place,  he 
set  a  model  which  could  be  safely  followed,  and  which  was 
secure  for  a  generation  at  least,  against  the  intrusion  of  slipshod 
banality.  For  more  than  a  generation  after  his  death,  the  im- 
pression of  his  sovereignty  remained  ;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  no  competent  writer  of  prose  since  Johnson's  day,  has 
not,  in  spite  of  all  diversities  of  genius,  and  in  spite  even  of 
earnest  resistance  to  his  sway,  owed  much  of  such  rhythm,  and 
balance,  and  lucidity  as  he  has  attained,  to  the  example  and  the 
model  set  by  Johnson.  In  some  of  the  authors  who  might  least 
of  all  be  supposed  to  accept  his  dictatorship,  it  will  be  interesting 
to  trace  examples  of  this  unconscious  influence,  in  the  later  pages 
of  this  selection. 

When  we  turn  to  an  examination  of  Johnson's  own  style,  we 
shall  find  that  its  characteristics  are  very  difterent  from  those  of 
the  parody  which  lives  in  the  popular  estimation.  No  man  could 
better  discard  long  words,  and  use  more  pithy  English  when  he 
chose,  than  could  Johnson.  "Wit  is  that  which  he  who  hath 
never  found  it  wonders  how  he  missed  ; "  such  a  sentence  shows 
that  Johnson  could  express  himself  tersely  when  it  suited  him  to 
do  so.  Often  the  long  words  and  the  formal  expression  are 
adopted  of  a  set  purpose,  which  is  humorous  much  more  than 
pedantic.  No  man  could  assume  a  manner  of  greater  ease  and 
directness,  and  no  one  could  achieve  with  more  perfect  art  that 
most  difficult  of  literary  manoeuvres,  the  introduction  of  a  con- 
venient but  entirely  irrelevant  digression.  We  have  only  to  turn 
over  a  few  pages  of  the  Lives  of  the  Poets  to  see  how  a  stinging 


138  ENGLISH  PROSE 


sarcasm  no  less  than  a  touch  of  playful  humour,  is  enhanced  by 
the  formal  dignity  of  manner,  and  would  have  lost  half  its  raciness 
if  the  ceremonial  stateliness  of  phraseology  were  absent. 

One  of  the  secrets  of  Johnson's  style  is  that  it  was  hammered 
out  upon  the  anvil  of  conversational  combat.  It  was  wrought 
into  shape  by  no  persevering  and  continuous  labour.  His  work 
was  done,  all  his  life  through,  in  those  sudden  starts  by  which 
he  shook  off  the  lethargy  that  burdened  him,  and  toiled  with 
fierce  and  untiring  energy,  with  all  the  muscles  of  his  mind 
strained  to  tensity.  So  it  was  with  his  conversation  and  with  the 
style  that  grew  out  of  that  conversational  habit.  All  his  thoughts 
turned  upon  questions  of  direct  human  interest,  upon  the  science 
of  character,  and  the  casuistry  of  ethics.  These  were  just  the 
questions  that  rejected  all  technical  terms,  and  Johnson  is 
singularly  free  from  technicalities  :  they  were  also  the  questions 
that  admitted  most  variety  of  treatment,  in  regard  to  which 
Johnson  might  most  readily  alter  his  position  with  the  ease  of  the 
intellectual  athlete  ;  which  admitted  of  endless  disputation,  and 
in  regard  to  which  skilful  argument,  clear  exposition,  and  ready 
epigram  could  best  win  a  conversational  triumph.  Addison's 
style  was  conversational  in  its  ease  and  its  familiarity  :  Johnson's 
style  has  not  the  ease,  but  it  has  the  force,  the  epigram,  and  the 
dialectical  readiness  of  successful  conversation.  We  have  his 
own  account  of  it  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  :  "  He  told  him  that  he 
had  early  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  to  do  his  best  on  eveiy  occasion 
and  in  every  company  ;  to  impart  whatever  he  knew  in  the  most 
forceful  language  he  could  put  it  in  ;  and  that,  by  constant 
practice,  and  never  suffering  any  careless  expression  to  escape 
him,  or  attempting  to  deliver  his  thoughts  without  arranging  them 
in  the  clearest  manner,  it  became  habitual  to  him  "  (Boswell). 

Another  characteristic  of  Johnson's  work  which  largely  affects 
his  style,  is  its  occasional  calm  and  condescending  frankness.  It 
is  not  the  frankness  of  a  familiar  friend.  When  he  confesses  to 
his  dislike  of  tedious  investigation  and  elaborate  research,  it  is 
with  the  frankness  which  despises  concealment,  not  with  that 
which  deprecates  criticism  or  craves  indulgence.  When  he 
draws  aside  the  curtain  and  speaks  of  the  loneliness  and  ill  health 
and  poverty  under  which  he  toiled,  he  gives  the  confidence  with 
the  air  of  one  who  defies  sympathy,  not  with  the  humility  of  one 
who  begs  for  pity.  But  in  both  cases,  the  effect  on  his  style  is 
the  same,  to  increase   the  force  of  its  dignified  formality,  which 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  139 


can  on  occasion  be  frank  and  even  confidential,  but  which  indi- 
cates clearly  enough  that  he  will  neither  welcome  nor  permit  the 
slightest  intrusion  beyond  the  limits  he  has  set  to  that  confidence. 

The  first  specimens  of  Johnson's  original  prose  were  the 
parliamentary  debates  (composed  almost  entirely  according  to 
his  own  notion  of  probabilities)  which  he  contributed  to  the 
Getitlemaii' s  Magazine.  The  Rambler  was  written  in  the  midst 
of  his  most  severe  and  prolonged  toil,  and  under  conditions  of 
grinding  poverty,  and  in  point  of  style  it  has  more  than  his 
usual  stateliness,  and  less  than  his  usual  variety  and  humour. 
The  Idler  was  written  when  he  had  escaped  from  the  long 
burden  of  the  Dictionary  and  was  already  a  literary  dictator,  and 
its  style  is  more  varied  by  light  and  shade,  more  quickened  by 
humour ;  but  the  weight  of  poverty  still  pressed  him,  and  its 
sadness  still  hangs  heavily  over  Rasselas,  which  was  written  in 
order  to  pay  for  his  mother's  funeral.  It  represents  perhaps 
the  best  specimen  of  Johnson's  more  formal  style.  From  first  to 
last  it  has  a  strain  of  melancholy,  relieved  by  few  lighter  touches  ; 
but  its  literary  skill  is  seen  in  the  perfect  symmetry,  and  com- 
pleteness of  its  construction,  all  the  more  remarkable  because  it 
wants  beginning,  and  end,  and  story. 

But  Johnson's  style  is  not  seen  in  its  richness  and  perfection, 
nor  in  its  consummate  ease,  until  we  come  to  his  last  and  greatest 
work — the  Lives  of  the  Poets.  That  was  not  begun  until  he  was 
nearly  seventy  years  of  age.  His  time  for  careful  and  methodic 
labour  was  now  past.  His  opinions  were  fixed,  and  he  was  not 
likely  to  examine  or  modify  them.  He  was  undisputed  literary 
dictator,  and  indisposed  to  bend  to  others'  views.  But  all  these 
circumstances  contributed  to  the  consummate  literary  qualities  of 
the  book.  This  is  not  the  place  either  to  impugn  or  defend  the 
justice  of  his  literary  criticisms.  But  for  vigour  and  ease  and 
variety  of  style,  for  elasticity  of  confidence,  for  keenness  of 
sarcasm,  for  brightness  of  humour,  the  Lives  hold  the  first  place, 
absolutely  free  from  competition,  amongst  all  works  of  English 
criticism  of  similar  range.  We  may  carp  at  Johnson's  judgments, 
and  rail  against  the  prejudice  and  injustice  of  his  decrees. 
We  may  be  disposed  to  accord  to  more  modern  critics,  all 
the  advantages  of  balanced  judgment  and  sympathetic  insight 
which  they  may  claim  ;  but  they  must  yield  to  Johnson  the  palm 
for  boldness,  for  wit,  for  extent  of  range,  and  for  brilliancy  of 
style. 


140  ENGLISH  PROSE 


To  those  at  least,  who,  hke  the  present  writer,  look  upon 
Johnson  as  a  man  and  as  a  genius  with  the  most  profound 
admiration,  it  may  be  permitted  to  point  to  passages,  to  be  found 
even  amongst  the  scanty  selections  that  follow,  which  may  fitly 
take  rank  amongst  the  most  consummate  and  perfect  specimens 
of  English  prose,  clothing  thoughts  of  highest  wisdom  in  language 
which  is  a  model  of  dignity  and  grace. 

H.  Craik. 


CRITICS 

The  task  of  an  author  is,  either  to  teach  what  is  not  known,  or 
to  recommend  known  truths  by  his  manner  of  adorning  them  ; 
either  to  let  new  Hght  in  upon  the  mind,  and  open  new  scenes  to  the 
prospect,  or  to  vary  the  dress  and  situation  of  common  objects, 
so  as  to  give  them  fresh  grace  and  more  powerful  attractions,  to 
spread  such  flowers  over  the  regions  through  which  the  intellect 
has  already  made  its  progress,  as  may  tempt  it  to  return,  and 
take  a  second  view  of  things  hastily  passed  over,  or  negligently 
regarded. 

Either  of  these  labours  is  very  difficult,  because  that  they  may 
not  be  fruitless,  men  must  not  only  be  persuaded  of  their  errors, 
but  reconciled  to  their  guide  ;  they  must  not  only  confess  their 
ignorance,  but,  what  is  still  less  pleasing,  must  allow  that  he 
from  whom  they  are  to  learn  is  more  knowing  than  themselves. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  such  an  employment  was  in  itself 
sufficiently  irksome  and  hazardous  ;  that  none  would  be  found  so 
malevolent  as  wantonly  to  add  weight  to  the  stone  of  Sisyphus  ; 
and  that  few  endeavours  would  be  used  to  obstruct  those  advances 
to  reputation,  which  must  be  made  at  such  an  expense  of  time 
and  thought,  with  so  great  hazard  in  the  miscarriage,  and  with  so 
little  advantage  from  the  success. 

Yet  there  is  a  certain  race  of  men,  that  either  imagine  it  their 
duty,  or  make  it  their  amusement,  to  hinder  the  reception  of 
every  work  of  learning  or  genius,  who  stand  as  sentinels  in  the 
avenues  of  fame,  and  value  themselves  upon  giving  ignorance  and 
envy  the  first  notice  of  a  prey. 

To  these  men,  who  distinguish  themselves  by  the  appellation 
of  Critics,  it  is  necessary  for  a  new  author  to  find  some  means  of 
recommendation.  It  is  probable,  that  the  most  malignant  of 
these  persecutors  might  be  somewhat  softened,  and  prevailed  on, 
for  a  short  time,  to  remit   their  fury.      Having  for  this   purpose 


142  ENGLISH  PROSE 


considered  many  expedients,  I  find  in  the  records  of  ancient 
times,  that  Argus  was  killed  by  music,  and  Cerberus  quieted 
with  a  sop  ;  and  am,  therefore,  inclined  to  believe  that  modern 
critics,  who,  if  they  have  not  the  eyes,  have  the  watchfulness  of  Argus, 
and  can  bark  as  loud  as  Cerberus,  though,  perhaps,  they  cannot 
bite  with  equal  force,  might  be  subdued  by  methods  of  the  same 
kind.  I  ha\e  heard  how  some  have  been  pacified  with  claret 
and  a  supper,  and  others  laid  asleep  with  the  soft  notes  of 
flattery. 

Though  the  nature  of  my  undertaking  gives  me  sufficient 
reason  to  dread  the  united  attacks  of  this  violent  generation,  yet, 
I  have  not  hitherto  persuaded  myself  to  take  any  measures  for 
flight  or  treaty.  For  I  am  in  doubt  whether  they  can  act  against 
ine  by  lawful  authority,  and  suspect  that  they  have  presumed 
upon  a  forged  commission,  styled  themselves  the  ministers  of 
Criticism,  without  any  authentic  evidence  of  delegation,  and 
uttered  their  own  determinations  as  the  decrees  of  a  higher 
judicature. 

Criticism,  from  whom  they  derive  their  claim  to  decide  the 
fate  of  writers,  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Labour  and  of  Truth  : 
she  was,  at  her  birth,  committed  to  the  care  of  Justice,  and 
brought  up  by  her  in  the  palace  of  Wisdom.  Being  soon  dis- 
tinguished by  the  celestials  for  her  uncommon  qualities,  she  was 
appointed  the  governess  of  Fancy,  and  empowered  to  beat  time 
to  the  chorus  of  the  Muses,  when  they  sung  before  the  throne  of 
Jupiter. 

When  the  Muses  condescended  to  visit  this  lower  world,  they 
came  accompanied  by  Criticism,  to  whom,  upon  her  descent  from 
her  native  regions.  Justice  gave  a  sceptre,  to  be  carried  aloft  in 
her  right  hand,  one  end  of  which  was  tinctured  with  ambrosia, 
and  enwreathed  with  a  golden  foliage  of  amaranths  and  bays  ; 
the  other  end  was  encircled  with  cypress  and  poppies,  and  dipped 
in  the  waters  of  oblivion.  In  her  left  hand,  she  bore  an  un- 
extinguishable  torch,  manufactured  by  Labour,  and  lighted  by 
Truth,  of  which  it  was  the  -particular  quality  immediately  to  show 
every  thing  in  its  true  form,  however  it  might  be  disguised  to 
common  eyes.  Whatever  aii  could  complicate,  or  folly  could 
confound,  was,  upon  the  first  gleam  of  the  torch  of  Truth,  exhibited 
in  its  distinct  parts  and  original  simplicity  ;  it  darted  through  the 
labyrinths  of  sophistry,  and  showed  at  once  all  the  absurdities  to 
which  they  served  for  refuge  ;   it  pierced  through  the  robes  which 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  143 

Rhetoric  often  sold  to  Falsehood,  and  detected  the  disproportion  of 
parts  which  artificial  veils  had  been  contrived  to  cover. 

Thus  furnished  for  the  execution  of  her  office,  Criticism  came 
down  to  survey  the  performances  of  those  who  professed  them- 
selves the  votaries  of  the  Muses.  Whatever  was  brought  before 
her,  she  beheld  by  the  steady  light  of  the  torch  of  Truth,  and 
when  her  examination  had  convinced  her,  that  the  laws  of  just 
writing  had  been  observed,  she  touched  it  with  the  amaranthine 
end  of  the  sceptre,  and  consigned  it  over  to  immortality. 

But  it  more  frequently  happened,  that  in  the  works  which 
required  her  inspection,  there  was  some  imposture  attempted  ; 
that  false  colours  were  laboriously  laid  ;  that  some  secret  inequality 
was  found  between  the  words  and  sentiments,  or  some  dis- 
similitude of  the  ideas  and  the  original  objects  ;  that  incongruities 
were  linked  together,  or  that  some  parts  were  of  no  use  but  to 
enlarge  the  appearance  of  the  whole,  without  contributing  to  its 
beauty,  solidity,  or  usefulness. 

Wherever  such  discoveries  were  made,  and  they  were  made 
whenever  these  faults  were  committed,  Criticism  refused  the  touch 
which  conferred  the  sanction  of  immortality,  and,  when  the  errors 
were  frequent  and  gross,  reversed  the  sceptre,  and  let  drops  of 
Lethe  distil  from  the  poppies  and  cypress  a  fatal  mildew,  which 
immediately  began  to  waste  the  work  away,  till  it  was  at  last 
totally  destroyed. 

There  were  some  compositions  brought  to  the  test,  in  which, 
when  the  strongest  light  was  thrown  upon  them,  their  beauties 
and  faults  appeared  so  equally  mingled,  that  Criticism  stood  with 
her  sceptre  poised  in  her  hand,  in  doubt  whether  to  shed  Lethe  or 
ambrosia,  upon  them.  These  at  last  increased  to  so  great  a 
number,  that  she  was  weary  of  attending  such  doubtful  claims, 
and,  for  fear  of  using  improperly  the  sceptre  of  Justice,  referred 
the  cause  to  be  considered  by  Time. 

The  proceedings  of  Time,  though  very  dilatory,  were,  some 
few  caprices  excepted,  conformable  to  justice  ;  and  many  who 
thought  themselves  secure  by  a  short  forbearance,  have  sunk 
under  his  scythe,  as  they  were  posting  down  with  their  volumes 
in  triumph  to  futurity.  It  was  observable  that  some  were 
destroyed  little  by  little,  and  others  crushed  for  ever  by  a  single 
blow. 

Criticism  having  long  kept  her  eye  fixed  steadily  upon  Time, 
was  at   last   so  well   satisfied  with   his   conduct,  that  she  withdrew 


144  ENGLISH  PROSE 


from  the  earth  with  her  patroness  Astrea,  and  left  Prejudice  and 
False  Taste  to  ravage  at  large  as  the  associates  of  Fraud  and 
Mischief;  contenting  herself  thenceforth  to  shed  her  influence 
from  afar  upon  some  select  minds,  fitted  for  its  reception  by  learn- 
ing and  by  virtue. 

Before  her  departure  she  broke  her  sceptre,  of  which  the 
shivers  that  formed  the  ambrosial  end  were  caught  up  by 
Flattery,  and  those  that  had  been  infected  with  the  waters  of  Lethe 
were,  with  equal  haste,  seized  by  Malevolence.  The  followers  of 
Flattery,  to  whom  she  distributed  her  part  of  the  sceptre,  neither 
had  nor  desired  light,  but  touched  indiscriminately  whatever 
power  or  interest  happened  to  exhibit.  The  companions  of 
Malevolence  were  supplied  by  the  Furies  with  a  torch,  which  had 
this  quaUty  peculiar  to  infernal  lustre,  that  its  light  fell  only  upon 
faults. 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible, 

Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe. 

With  these  fragments  of  authority,  the  slaves  of  Flattery  and 
Malevolence  marched  out  at  the  command  of  their  mistresses,  to 
confer  immortality  or  condemn  to  oblivion.  But  the  sceptre  had 
now  lost  its  power  ;  and  Time  passes  his  sentence  at  leisure, 
without  any  regard  to  their  determinations. 

From  Tlic  Rambler. 


GOOD   HUMOUR 

Those  who  exalt  themselves  into  the  chair  of  instruction,  without 
inquiring  whether  any  will  submit  to  their  authority,  have  not 
sufficiently  considered  how  much  of  human  life  passes  in  little 
incidents,  cursory  conversation,  slight  business,  and  casual  amuse- 
ments ;  and  therefore  they  have  endeavoured  only  to  inculcate 
the  more  awful  virtues,  without  condescending  to  regard  those 
petty  ciualities,  which  grow  important  only  by  their  frequency,  and 
which,  though  they  produce  no  single  acts  of  heroism,  nor  astonish 
us  by  great  events,  yet  are  every  moment  exerting  their  influence 
upon  us,  and  make  the  draught  of  life  sweet  or  bitter  by  imper- 
ceptible instillations.  They  operate  unseen  and  unregarded,  as 
change  of  air  makes  us  sick  or  healthy,   though  we  breathe  it 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  '  145 

without  attention,  and  only  know  the  particles  that  impregnate 
it  by  their  salutary  or  malignant  effects. 

You  have  shown  yourself  not  ignorant  of  the  value  of  those 
subaltern  endowments,  yet  have  hitherto  neglected  to  recommend 
good-humour  to  the  world,  though  a  little  reflection  will  show  you 
that  it  is  the  balm  of  beings  the  quality  to  which  all  that  adorns 
or  elevates  mankind  must  owe  its  power  of  pleasing.  Without 
good-humour,  learning  and  bravery  can  only  confer  that  superiority 
which  swells  the  heart  of  the  lion  in  the  desert,  where  he  roars 
without  reply,  and  ravages  without  resistance.  Without  good- 
humour,  virtue  may  awe  by  its  dignity,  and  amaze  by  its  bright- 
ness ;  but  must  always  be  viewed  at  a  distance,  and  will  scarcely 
gain  a  friend  or  attract  an  imitator. 

Good-humour  may  be  defined  a  habit  of  being  pleased  ;  a 
constant  and  perennial  softness  of  manner,  easiness  of  approach, 
and  suavity  of  disposition  ;  like  that  which  every  man  perceives 
in  himself,  when  the  first  transports  of  new  felicity  have  subsided, 
and  his  thoughts  are  only  kept  in  motion  by  a  slow  succession  of 
soft  impulses.  Good-humour  is  a  state  between  gaiety  and 
unconcem  ;  the  act  of  emanation  of  a  mind  at  leisure  to  regard 
the  gratification  of  another. 

It  is  imagined  by  many,  that  whenever  they  aspire  to  please, 
they  are  recjuired  to  be  merry,  and  to  show  the  gladness  of  their 
souls  by  flights  of  pleasantry,  and  bursts  of  laughter.  But,  though 
these  men  may  be  for  a  time  heard  with  applause  and  admiration, 
they  seldom  delight  us  long.  We  enjoy  them  a  little,  and  then 
retire  to  easiness  and  good-humour,  as  the  eye  gazes  awhile  on 
eminences  glittering  with  the  sun,  but  soon  turns  aching  away  to 
verdure  and  to  flowers. 

Gaiety  is  to  good-humour  as  animal  perfumes  to  vegetable 
fragrance  ;  the  one  overpowers  weak  spirits,  and  the  other  recreates 
and  revives  them.  Gaiety  seldom  fails  to  give  some  pain  ;  the 
hearers  either  strain  their  faculties  to  accompany  its  towerings, 
or  are  left  behind  in  envy  and  despair.  Good-humour  boasts  no 
faculties  which  every  one  does  not  believe  in  his  own  power,  and 
pleases  principally  by  not  offending. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  most  certain  way  to  give  any  man 
pleasure,  is  to  persuade  him  that  you  receive  pleasure  from  him, 
to  encourage  him  to  freedom  and  confidence,  and  to  avoid  any 
such  appearance  of  superiority  as  may  overbear  and  depress  him. 
We  see  many  that  by  this  art  only  spend  their  days  in  the  midst 

VOL.  IV  L 


146  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  caresses,  invitations,  and  civilities,  and  without  any  extraor- 
dinary qualities  or  attainments,  are  the  universal  favourites  of 
both  sexes,  and  certainly  find  a  friend  in  every  place.  The 
darlings  of  the  world  will,  indeed,  be  generally  found  such  as 
excite  neither  jealousy  nor  fear,  and  are  not  considered  as 
candidates  for  any  eminent  degree  of  reputation,  but  content 
themselves  with  common  accomplishments,  and  endeavour  rather 
to  solicit  kindness,  than  to  raise  esteem  ;  therefore  in  assemblies 
and  places  of  resort  it  seldom  fails  to  happen,  that  though  at  the 
entrance  of  some  particular  person  every  face  brightens  with 
gladness,  and  every  hand  is  extended  in  salutation,  yet  if  you 
pursue  him  beyond  the  first  exchange  of  civilities,  you  will  find 
him  of  very  small  importance,  and  only  welcome  to  the  company 
as  one  by  whom  all  conceive  themselves  admired,  and  with  whom 
any  one  is  at  liberty  to  amuse  himself  when  he  can  find  no  other 
auditor  or  companion  ;  as  one  with  whom  all  are  at  ease,  who 
will  hear  a  jest  without  criticism,  and  a  narrative  without  contra- 
diction, who  laughs  with  every  wit,  and  yields  to  every  disputer. 

There  are  many  whose  vanity  always  inclines  them  to  associate 
with  those  from  whom  they  have  no  reason  to  fear  mortification  ; 
and  there  are  times  in  which  the  wise  and  the  knowing  are  willing 
to  receive  praise  without  the  labour  of  deserving  it,  in  which  the 
most  elevated  mind  is  willing  to  descend,  and  the  most  active  to 
be  at  rest.  All  therefore  are  at  some  hour  or  another  fond  of 
companions  whom  they  can  entertain  upon  easy  terms,  and  who 
will  relieve  them  from  solitude,  without  condemning  them  to 
vigilance  and  caution.  We  are  most  inclined  to  love  when  we 
have  nothing  to  fear,  and  he  that  encourages  us  to  please  ourselves, 
will  not  be  long  without  preference  in  our  affection  to  those  whose 
learning  holds  us  at  the  distance  of  pupils,  or  whose  wit  calls  all 
attention  from  us,  and  leaves  us  without  importance  and  without 
regard. 

It  is  remarked  by  Prince  Henry,  when  he  sees  Falstafif  lying 
on  the  ground,  that  "  he  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man." 
He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  vices  and  follies  of  him  whom 
he  lamented,  but  while  his  conviction  compelled  him  to  do  justice 
to  superior  qualities,  his  tenderness  still  broke  out  at  the 
remembrance  of  Falstafif,  of  the  cheerful  companion,  the  loud 
buffoon,  with  whom  he  had  passed  his  time  in  all  the  luxury  of 
idleness,  who  had  gladdened  him  with  unenvied  merriment,  and 
whom  he  could  at  once  enjoy  and  despise. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  I47 

You  may  perhaps  think  this  account  of  those  who  are  dis- 
tinguished for  their  good-humour,  not  very  consistent  with  the 
praises  which  I  have  bestowed  upon  it.  But  surely  nothing  can 
more  evidently  show  the  value  of  this  quality,  than  that  it 
recommends  those  who  are  destitute  of  all  other  excellencies, 
and  procures  regard  to  the  trifling,  friendship  to  the  worthless, 
and  aftection  to  the  dull. 

Good-humour  is  indeed  generally  degraded  by  the  characters 
in  which  it  is  found  ;  for,  being  considered  as  a  cheap  and  vulgar 
quality,  we  find  it  often  neglected  by  those  that,  having  excellencies 
of  higher  reputation  and  brighter  splendour,  perhaps  imagine  that 
they  have  some  right  to  gratify  themselves  at  the  expense  of  others, 
and  are  to  demand  compliance,  rather  than  to  practise  it.  It  is 
by  some  unfortunate  mistake  that  almost  all  those  who  have  any 
claim  to  esteem  or  love,  press  their  pretensions  with  too  little 
consideration  of  others.  This  mistake,  my  own  interest,  as  well 
as  my  zeal  for  general  happiness,  makes  me  desirous  to  rectify  ; 
for  I  have  a  friend,  who,  because  he  knows  his  own  fidelity  and 
usefulness,  is  never  willing  to  sink  into  a  companion  :  I  have  a 
wife  whose  beauty  first  subdued  me,  and  whose  wit  confirmed 
her  conquest,  but  whose  beauty  now  serves  no  other  purpose  than 
to  entitle  her  to  tyranny  and  whose  wit  is  only  used  to  justify 
perverseness. 

Surely  nothing  can  be  more  unreasonable  than  to  lose  the 
will  to  please,  when  we  are  conscious  of  the  power,  or  show  more 
cruelty  than  to  choose  any  kind  of  influence  before  that  of  kind- 
ness. He  that  regards  the  welfare  of  others,  should  make  his 
virtue  approachable,  that  it  may  be  loved  and  copied  ;  and  he 
that  considers  the  wants  which  every  man  feels,  or  will  feel,  of 
external  assistance,  must  rather  wish  to  be  surrounded  by  those 
that  love  him,  than  by  those  that  admire  his  excellencies,  or  solicit 
his  favours  ;  for  admiration  ceases  with  novelty,  and  interest  gains 
its  end  and  retires.  A  man  whose  great  qualities  want  the 
ornament  of  superficial  attractions,  is  like  a  naked  mountain  with 
mines  of  gold,  which  will  be  frequented  only  till  the  treasure  is 
exhausted. 

(From  the  Same.) 


148  ENGLISH  PROSE 


PEDANTRY 

As  any  action  or  posture,  long  continued,  will  distort  and  disfigure 
the  limbs  ;  so  the  mind  likewise  is  crippled  and  contracted  by 
perpetual  application  to  the  same  set  of  ideas.  It  is  easy  to  guess 
the  trade  of  an  artizan  by  his  knees,  his  fingers,  or  his  shoulders  ; 
and  there  are  few  among  men  of  the  more  liberal  professions, 
whose  minds  do  not  carry  the  brand  of  their  calling,  or  whose 
conversation  does  not  quickly  discover  to  what  class  of  the  com- 
munity they  belong. 

These  peculiarities  have  been  of  great  use,  in  the  general  hostility 
which  every  part  of  mankind  exercises  against  the  rest,  to  furnish 
insults  and  sarcasms.  Every  art  has  its  dialect,  uncouth  and 
ungrateful  to  all  whom  custom  has  not  reconciled  to  its  sound, 
and  which  therefore  becomes  ridiculous  by  a  slight  misapplication, 
or  unnecessary  repetition. 

The  general  reproach  with  which  ignorance  revenges  the 
superciliousness  of  learning,  is  that  of  pedantry  ;  a  censure  which 
every  man  incurs,  who  has  at  any  time  the  misfortune  to  talk  to 
those  who  cannot  understand  him,  and  by  which  the  modest  and 
timorous  are  sometimes  frighted  from  the  display  of  their  acqui- 
sitions, and  the  exertion  of  their  powers. 

The  name  of  a  pedant  is  so  formidable  to  young  men  when 
they  first  sally  from  their  colleges,  and  is  so  liberally  scattered 
by  those  who  mean  to  boast  their  elegance  of  education,  easiness 
of  manners,  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  that  it  seems  to  require 
particular  consideration  ;  since,  perhaps,  if  it  were  once  under- 
stood, many  a  heart  might  be  freed  from  painful  apprehensions, 
and  many  a  tongue  delivered  from  restraint. 

Pedantry  is  the  unseasonable  ostentation  of  learning.  It  may 
be  discovered  either  in  the  choice  of  a  subject,  or  in  the  manner 
of  treating  it.  He  is  undoubtedly  guilty  of  pedantry,  who,  when 
he  has  made  himself  master  of  some  abstruse  and  uncultivated 
part  of  knowledge,  obtrudes  his  remarks  and  discoveries  upon 
those  whom  he  believes  unable  to  judge  of  his  proficiency,  and 
from  whom,  as  he  cannot  fear  contradiction,  he  cannot  properly 
expect  applause. 

To  this  error  the  student  is  sometimes  betrayed  by  the 
natural  recurrence  of  the  mind  to  its  common  employment,  by 
the  pleasure  which  every  man  receives  from  the  recollection  of 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  149 


pleasing  images,  and  the  desire  of  dwelling  upon  topics,  on  which 
he  knows  himself  able  to  speak  with  justness.  But  because  we 
are  seldom  so  far  prejudiced  in  favour  of  each  other,  as -to  search 
out  for  palliations,  this  failure  of  politeness  is  imputed  always  to 
vanity  ;  and  the  harmless  collegiate,  who  perhaps  intended 
entertainment  and  instruction,  or  at  worst  only  spoke  without 
sufficient  reflection  upon  the  character  of  his  hearers,  is  censured 
as  arrogant  or  overbearing,  and  eager  to  extend  his  renown, 
in  contempt  of  the  convenience  of  society,  and  the  laws  of  con- 
versation. 

All  discourse  of  which  others  cannot  partake,  is  not  only  an 
irksome  usurpation  of  the  time  devoted  to  pleasure  and  entertain- 
ment, but,  what  never  fails  to  excite  very  keen  resentment,  an 
insolent  assertion  of  superiority,  and  a  triumph  over  less  enlightened 
understandings.  The  pedant  is,  therefore,  not  only  heard  with 
weariness,  but  malignity ;  and  those  who  conceive  themselves 
insulted  by  his  knowledge,  never  fail  to  tell  with  acrimony  how 
injudiciously  it  was  exerted. 

To  avoid  this  dangerous  imputation,  scholars  sometimes  divest 
themselves  with  too  much  haste  of  their  academical  formality  and, 
in  their  endeavours  to  accommodate  their  notions  and  their  style  to 
common  conceptions,  talk  rather  of  any  thing  than  of  that  which 
they  understand,  and  sink  into  insipidity  of  sentiment  and  mean- 
ness of  expression. 

There  prevails  among  men  of  letters  an  opinion,  that  all 
appearance  of  science  is  particularly  hateful  to  women  ;  and  that 
therefore,  whoever  desires  to  be  well  received  in  female  assemblies, 
must  cjualify  himself  by  a  total  rejection  of  all  that  is  serious, 
rational,  or  important  ;  must  consider  argument  or  criticism,  as 
perpetually  interdicted  ;  and  devote  all  his  attention  to  trifles,  and 
all  his  elocjuence  to  compliment. 

Students  often  form  their  notions  of  the  present  generation 
from  the  writings  of  the  past,  and  are  not  very  early  informed  of 
those  changes  which  the  gradual  diffusion  of  knowledge,  or  the 
sudden  caprice  of  fashion,  produces  in  the  world.  Whatever 
might  be  the  state  of  female  literature  in  the  last  century,  there 
is  now  no  longer  any  danger  lest  the  scholar  should  want  an 
adequate  audience  at  the  tea-table  ;  and  whoever  thinks  it 
necessary  to  regulate  his  conversation  by  antiquated  rules,  will  be 
rather  despised  for  his  futility  than  caressed  for  his  politeness. 

To  talk  intentionally  in  a  manner  abo\c  the  comprehension  of 


ISO  ENGLISH  PROSE 


those  whom  we  address,  is  unquestionable  pedantry  ;  but  surely 
complaisance  requires,  that  no  man  should,  without  proof,  con- 
clude his  company  incapable  of  following  him  to  the  highest 
elevation  of  his  fancy,  or  the  utmost  extent  of  his  knowledge.  It 
is  always  safer  to  err  in  favour  of  others  than  of  ourselves,  and 
therefore  we  seldom  hazard  much  by  endeavouring  to  excel. 

It  ought  at  least  to  be  the  care  of  learning,  when  she  quits  her 
exaltation,  to  descend  with  dignity.  Nothing  is  more  despicable 
than  the  airiness  and  jocularity  of  a  man  bred  to  severe  science 
and  solitary  meditation.  To  trifle  agreeably  is  a  secret  which 
schools  cannot  impart  ;  that  gay  negligence  and  vivacious  levity, 
which  charm  down  resistance  wherever  they  appear,  are  never 
attainable  by  him  who,  having  spent  his  first  years  among  the 
dust  of  libraries,  enters  late  into  the  gay  world  with  an  unpliant 
attention  and  established  habits. 

It  is  observed  in  the  panegyric  on  Fabricius  the  mechanist, 
that  though  forced  by  public  employments  into  mingled  conver- 
sation, he  never  lost  the  modesty  and  seriousness  of  the  convent, 
nor  drew  ridicule  upon  himself  by  an  affected  imitation  of  fashion- 
able life.  To  the  same  praise  every  man  devoted  to  learning 
ought  to  aspire.  If  he  attempts  the  softer  arts  of  pleasing,  and 
endeavours  to  learn  the  graceful  bow  and  the  familiar  embrace, 
the  insinuating  accent  and  the  general  smile,  he  will  lose  the 
respect  due  to  the  character  of  learning,  without  arriving  at  the 
envied  honour  of  doing  anything  with  elegance  and  facility. 

Theophrastus  was  discovered  not  to  be  a  native  of  Athens,  by 
so  strict  an  adherence  to  the  Attic  dialect,  as  shewed  that  he  had 
learned  it  not  by  custom,  but  by  rule.  A  man  not  early  formed 
to  habitual  elegance,  betrays  in  like  manner  the  effects  of  his 
education,  by  an  unnecessary  anxiety  of  behaviour.  It  is  as 
possible  to  become  pedantic  by  fear  of  pedantry,  as  to  be  trouble- 
some by  ill-timed  civility.  There  is  no  kind  of  impertinence  more 
justly  censurable,  than  his  who  is  always  labouring  to  level 
thoughts  to  intellects  higher  than  his  own  ;  who  apologises  for 
every  word  which  his  own  narrowness  of  converse  inclines  him  to 
think  unusual  ;  keeps  the  exuberance  of  his  faculties  under  visible 
restraint  ;  is  solicitous  to  anticipate  enquiries  by  needless  explan- 
ations ;  and  endeavours  to  shade  his  own  abilities,  lest  weak  eyes 
should  be  dazzled  with  their  lustre. 

(From  the  Same.) 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  151 


TRAVELLERS'  AFFECTATIONS 

It  has  been  observed,  I  think  by  Sir  Wilham  Temple,  and  after 
him  by  almost  every  other  writer,  that  England  affords  a  greater 
variety  of  characters  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  This  is  ascribed 
to  the  liberty  prevailing  amongst  us,  which  gives  every  man  the 
privilege  of  being  wise  or  foolish  his  own  way,  and  preserves  him 
from  the  necessity  of  hypocrisy  or  the  servility  of  imitation. 

That  the  position  itself  is  true,  I  am  not  completely  satisfied. 
To  be  nearly  acquainted  with  the  people  of  different  countries 
can  happen  to  very  few ;  and  in  life,  as  in  everything  else  beheld 
at  a  distance,  there  appears  an  even  uniformity  :  the  petty  dis- 
criminations which  diversify  the  natural  character,  are  not  dis- 
coverable but  by  a  close  inspection  ;  we,  therefore,  find  them 
most  at  home,  because  there  we  have  most  opportunities  of 
remarking  them.  Much  less  am  I  convinced,  that  this  peculiar 
diversification,  if  it  be  real,  is  the  consequence  of  peculiar  liberty  : 
for  where  is  the  government  to  be  found  that  superintends 
individuals  with  so  much  vigilance,  as  not  to  leave  their  private 
conduct  without  restraint  ?  Can  it  enter  into  a  reasonable  mind 
to  imagine,  that  men  of  every  other  nation  are  not  equally  masters 
of  their  own  time  or  houses  with  ourselves,  and  equally  at  liberty 
to  be  parsimonious  or  profuse,  frolic  or  sullen,  abstinent  or 
luxurious  1  Liberty  is  certainly  necessary  to  the  full  play  of  pre- 
dominant humours  ;  but  such  liberty  is  to  be  found  alike  under 
the  government  of  the  many  or  the  few,  in  monarchies  or  in 
commonwealths. 

How  readily  the  predominant  passion  snatches  an  interval  of 
liberty,  and  how  fast  it  expands  itself  when  the  weight  of  restraint 
is  taken  away,  I  had  lately  an  opportunity  to  discover,  as  I  took 
a  journey  into  the  country  in  a  stage-coach  ;  which,  as  every 
journey  is  a  kind  of  adventure,  may  be  very  properly  related  to 
you,  though  I  can  display  no  such  extraordinary  assembly  as 
Cervantes  has  collected  at  Don  Quixote's  inn. 

In  a  stage-coach  the  passengers  are  for  the  most  part  wholly 
unknown  to  one  another,  and  without  expectation  of  ever  meeting 
again  when  their  journey  is  at  an  end  ;  one  should  therefore 
imagine,  that  it  was  of  little  importance  to  any  of  them,  what 
conjectures  the  rest  should  form  concerning  him.  Yet  so  it  is, 
that  as  all  think  themselves   secure   from  detection,   all  assume 


152  ENGLISH  PROSE 

that  character  of  which  they  are  most  desirous,  and  on  no  occasion 
is  the  general  ambition  of  superiority  more  apparently  indulged. 

On  the  day  of  our  departure,  in  the  twilight  of  the  morning,  I 
ascended  the  vehicle  with  three  men  and  two  women,  my  fellow- 
travellers.  It  was  easy  to  observe  the  affected  elevation  of  mien 
with  which  every  one  entered,  and  the  supercilious  civility  with 
which  they  paid  their  compliments  to  each  other.  When  the  first 
ceremony  was  dispatched,  we  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  all 
employed  in  collecting  importance  into  our  faces,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  strike  reverence  and  submission  into  our  companions. 

It  is  always  observable  that  silence  propagates  itself,  and  that 
the  longer  talk  has  been  suspended,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  find 
anything  to  say.  We  began  now  to  wish  for  conversation  ;  but 
no  one  seemed  inclined  to  descend  from  his  dignity,  or  first 
propose  a  topic  of  discourse.  At  last  a  corpulent  gentleman,  who 
had  equipped  himself  for  this  expedition  with  a  scarlet  surtout 
and  a  large  hat  with  a  broad  lace,  drew  out  his  watch,  looked  on 
it  in  silence,  and  then  held  it  dangling  at  his  finger.  This  was, 
I  suppose,  understood  by  all  the  company  as  an  invitation  to  ask 
the  time  of  day,  but  nobody  appeared  to  heed  his  overture  ;  and 
his  desire  to  be  talking  so  far  overcame  his  resentment,  that  he 
let  us  know  of  his  own  accord  that  it  was  past  five,  and  that  in 
two  hours  we  should  be  at  breakfast. 

His  condescension  was  thrown  away ;  we  continued  all 
obdurate ;  the  ladies  held  up  their  heads  ;  I  amused  myself  with 
watching  their  behaviour ;  and  of  the  other  two,  one  seemed  to 
employ  himself  in  counting  the  trees  as  we  drove  by  them,  the 
other  drew  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  counterfeited  a  slumber. 
The  man  of  benevolence,  to  show  that  he  was  not  depressed  by 
our  neglect,  hummed  a  tune  and  beat  time  upon  his  snuff-box. 

Thus  universally  displeased  with  one  another,  and  not  much 
delighted  with  ourselves,  we  came  at  last  to  the  little  inn 
appointed  for  our  repast  ;  and  all  began  at  once  to  recompense 
themselves  for  the  constraint  of  silence,  by  innumerable  questions 
and  orders  to  the  people  that  attended  us.  At  last,  what  every 
one  had  called  for  was  got,  or  declared  impossible  to  be  got  at 
that  time,  and  we  were  persuaded  to  sit  round  the  same  table  ; 
when  the  gentleman  in  the  red  surtout  looked  again  upon  his 
watch,  told  us  that  we  had  half  an  hour  to  spare,  but  he  was 
sorry  to  see  so  little  merriment  among  us  ;  that  all  fellow-travellers 
were  for  the  time  upon  the  level,  and  that  it  was  always  his  way 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  153 

to  make  himself  one  of  the  company.  "  I  rcmeniber,"  says  he, 
"  it  was  on  just  such  a  morning  as  this,  that  I  and  my  Lord 
Mumble  and  the  Duke  of  Tcnterden  were  out  upon  a  ramble  :  we 
called  at  a  little  house  as  it  might  be  this  ;  and  my  landlady,  I 
warrant  you,  not  suspecting^  to  whom  she  was  talking,  was  so 
jocular  and  facetious,  and  made  so  many  merry  answers  to  our 
questions,  that  we  were  all  ready  to  burst  with  laughter.  At 
last  the  good  woman  happening^  to  overhear  me  whisper  the  duke 
and  call  him  by  his  title,  was  so  surprised  and  confounded,  that 
we  could  scarcely  get  a  word  from  her  ;  and  the  duke  never  met 
me  from  that  day  to  this,  but  he  talks  of  the  little  house,  and 
quarrels  with  me  for  terrifying  the  landlady." 

He  had  scarcely  time  to  congratulate  himself  on  the  venera- 
tion which  this  narrative  must  have  procured  him  from  the 
company,  when  one  of  the  ladies  having  reached  out  for  a  plate 
on  a  distant  part  of  the  table,  began  to  remark  "the  incon- 
veniences of  travelling,  and  the  difficulty  which  they  who  never 
sat  at  home  without  a  great  number  of  attendants  found  in  per 
forming  for  themselves  such  offices  as  the  road  required  ;  but 
that  people  of  quality  often  travelled  in  disguise,  and  might  be 
generally  known  from  the  vulgar  by  their  condescension  to  poor 
inn-keepers,  and  the  allowance  which  they  made  for  any  defect 
in  their  entertainment ;  that  for  her  part,  while  people  were  civil 
and  meant  well,  it  was  never  her  custom  to  find  fault,  for  one  was 
not  to  expect  upon  a  journey  all  that  one  enjoyed  at  one's  own 
house." 

A  general  emulation  seemed  now  to  be  excited.  One  of  the 
men,  who  had  hitherto  said  nothing,  called  for  the  last  news- 
paper, and  having  perused  it  a  while  with  deep  pensiveness,  "It 
is  impossible,"  says  he,  "  for  any  man  to  guess  how  to  act  with 
regard  to  the  stocks  ;  last  week  it  was  the  general  opinion  that 
they  would  fall ;  and  I  sold  out  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  order 
to  a  purchase  :  they  have  now  risen  unexpectedly  :  and  I  make 
no  doubt  but  at  my  return  to  London  I  shall  risk  thirty  thousand 
pounds  among  them  again." 

A  young  man,  who  had  hitherto  distinguished  himself  only  by 
the  vivacity  of  his  looks,  and  a  frequent  diversion  of  his  eyes 
from  one  object  to  another,  upon  this  closed  his  snuff-box,  and 
told  us,  that  "  he  had  a  hundred  times  talked  with  the  chancellor 
and  the  judges  on  the  subject  of  the  stocks  ;  that  for  his  part  he 
did   not   pretend    to   be   well   acquainted   with    the    princii)Ies    on 


154  ENGLISH  PROSE 


which  they  were  estabHshcd,  but  had  always  heard  them  reckoned 
pernicious  to  trade,  uncertain  in  their  produce,  and  unsohd  in 
their  foundation  ;  and  that  he  had  been  advised  by  three  judges, 
his  most  intimate  friends,  never  to  venture  his  money  in  the  funds, 
but  to  put  it  out  upon  land  security,  till  he  could  light  upon  an 
estate  in  his  own  country." 

It  might  be  expected,  that  upon  these  glimpses  of  latent 
dignity,  we  should  all  have  began  to  look  round  us  with  venera- 
tion ;  and  have  behaved  like  the  princes  of  romance,  when  the 
enchantment  that  disguises  them  is  dissolved,  and  they  discover 
the  dignity  of  each  other  :  yet  it  happened,  that  none  of  these 
hints  made  much  impression  on  the  company  ;  every  one  was 
apparently  suspected  of  endeavouring  to  impose  false  appearances 
upon  the  rest ;  all  continued  their  haughtiness  in  hopes  to  enforce 
their  claims  ;  and  all  grew  every  hour  more  sullen,  because  they 
found  their  representations  of  themselves  without  effect. 

Thus  we  travelled  on  four  days  with  malevolence  perpetually 
increasing-,  and  without  any  endeavour  but  to  outtire  each  other  in 
superciliousness  and  neglect ;  and  when  any  two  of  us  could 
separate  ourselves  for  a  moment,  we  vented  our  indignation  at 
the  sauciness  of  the  rest. 

At  length  the  journey  was  at  an  end  ;  and  time  and  chance,  that 
strip  off  all  disguises,  have  discovered  that  the  intimate  of  lords 
and  dukes  is  a  nobleman's  butler,  who  has  furnished  a  shop  with 
the  money  he  has  saved  ;  the  man  who  deals  so  largely  in  the  funds, 
is  a  clerk  of  a  broker  in  'Change  Alley  ;  the  lady  who  so  carefully 
concealed  her  quality,  keeps  a  cook-shop  behind  the  Exchange  ; 
and  the  young  man,  who  is  so  happy  in  the  friendship  of  the 
judges,  engrosses  and  transcribes  for  bread  in  a  garret  of  the 
Temple.  Of  one  of  the  women  only  I  could  make  no  dis- 
advantageous detection,  because  she  had  assumed  no  character, 
but  accommodated  herself  to  the  scene  before  her,  without  any 
strug''gle  for  distinction  or  superiority. 

I  could  not  forbear  to  reflect  on  the  folly  of  practising-  a  fraud, 
which,  as  the  event  showed,  had  been  already  practised  too  often 
to  succeed,  and  by  the  success  of  which  no  advantage  could  have 
been  obtained  ;  of  assuming  a  character,  which  was  to  end  with 
the  day  ;  and  of  claiming  upon  false  pretences  honours  which 
must  perish  with  the  breath  that  paid  them. 

But,  Mr.  Adventurer,  let  not  those  who  laugh  at  mc  and  my 
companions,   think   this  folly  confined  to  a  stage-coach.      Every 


SA  MUEL  JOHNSON  1 55 

man  in  the  journey  of  life  takes  the  same  advantage  of  the 
ignorance  of  his  fellow-travellers,  disguises  himself  in  counterfeited 
merit,  and  hears  those  praises  with  complacency  which  his 
conscience  reproaches  him  for  accepting.  Every  man  deceives 
himself,  while  he  thinks  he  is  deceiving  others,  and  forgets  that 
the  time  is  at  hand  when  every  illusion  shall  cease,  when  fictitious 
excellence  shall  be  torn  away,  and  yill  must  be  shown  to  all  in 
their  real  estate.  {Adventurer,  No.  84.) 


PRAISES  OF  SOLITUDE 

There  has  always  prevailed  among  that  part  of  mankind  that 
addict  their  minds  to  speculation,  a  propensity  to  talk  much  of 
the  delights  of  retirement ;  and  some  of  the  most  pleasing 
compositions  produced  in  every  age  contain  descriptions  of  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  a  country  life. 

I  know  not  whether  those  who  thus  ambitiously  repeat  the 
praises  of  solitude  have  always  considered  how  much  they  depre- 
ciate mankind  by  declaring  that  whatever  is  excellent  or  desirable  is 
to  be  obtained  by  departing  from  them  ;  that  the  assistance  which 
we  may  derive  from  one  another  is  not  equivalent  to  the  evils 
which  we  have  to  fear  ;  that  the  kindness  of  a  few  is  overbalanced 
by  the  malice  of  many ;  and  that  the  protection  of  society  is  too 
dearly  purchased,  by  encountering  its  dangers  and  enduring  its 
oppressions. 

These  specious  representations  of  solitary  happiness,  however 
opprobrious  to  human  nature,  have  so  far  spread  their  intluence 
over  the  world,  that  almost  every  man  delights  his  imagination 
with  the  hopes  of  obtaining  some  time  an  opportunity  of  retreat. 
Many,  indeed,  who  enjoy  retreat  only  in  imagination,  content 
themselves  with  believing',  that  another  year  will  transport  them  to 
rural  tranquillity,  and  die  while  they  talk  of  doing  what,  if  they 
had  lived  longer,  they  would  never  have  done.  But  many  likewise 
there  are,  either  of  greater  resolution  or  more  credulity,  who  in 
earnest  try  the  state  which  they  have  been  taught  to  think  thus 
secure  from  cares  and  dangers  ;  and  retire  to  pri\acy,  either  that 
they  may  improve  their  happiness,  increase  their  knowledge,  or 
exalt  their  virtue. 

The  greater  part  of  the  admirers  of  solitude,  as  of  all  other 


156  ENGLISH  PROSE 


classes  of  mankind,  have  no  higher  or  remoter  view,  tlian  the 
present  gratification  of  their  passions.  Of  these  some,  haughty 
and  impetuous,  fly  from  society  only  because  they  cannot  bear 
to  repay  to  others  the  regard  which  themselves  exact  ;  and  think 
no  state  of  life  eligible,  but  that  which  places  them  out  of  the 
reach  of  censure  or  contnjl,  and  affords  them  opportunities  of 
living  in  a  perpetual  compfcance  with  their  own  inclinations, 
without  the  necessity  of  regulating  their  actions  by  any  other 
man's  convenience  or  opinion. 

There  are  others  of  minds  more  delicate  and  tender,  easily 
offended  by  eveiy  deviation  from  rectitude,  soon  disgusted  by 
ignorance  or  impertinence,  and  always  expecting  from  the  con- 
versation of  mankind  more  elegance,  purity,  and  truth,  than  the 
mingled  mass  of  life  will  easily  afford.  Such  men  are  in  haste 
to  retire  from  grossness,  falsehood,  and  brutality,  and  hope  to 
find  in  private  habitations  at  least  a  negative  felicity,  an  exemption 
from  the  shocks  and  perturbations  with  which  public  scenes  are 
continually  distressing  them. 

To  neither  of  these  votaries  will  solitude  afford  that  content, 
which  she  has  been  taught  so  lavishly  to  promise.  The  man  of 
arrogance  will  quickly  discover,  that  by  escaping  from  his  opponents 
he  has  lost  his  flatterers,  that  greatness  is  nothing  where  it  is  not 
seen,  and  power  nothing  where  it  cannot  be  felt  :  and  he,  whose 
faculties  are  employed  in  too  close  an  observation  of  failings  and 
defects,  will  find  his  condition  very  little  mended  by  transferring 
his  attention  from  others  to  himself;  he  will  probably  soon  come 
back  in  quest  of  new  objects,  and  be  glad  to  keep  his  captiousness 
employed  upon  any  character  rather  than  his  own. 

Others  are  seduced  into  solitude  merely  by  the  authority  of 
great  names,  and  expect  to  find  those  charms  in  tranquillity  which 
have  allured  statesmen  and  conquerors  to  the  shades ;  these 
likewise  are  apt  to  wonder  at  their  disappointment,  for  want  of 
considering  that  those  whom  they  aspire  to  imitate  carried  with 
them  to  their  country  seats  minds  full  fraught  with  subjects  of  reflec- 
tion, the  consciousness  of  great  merit,  the  memory  of  illustrious 
actions,  the  knowledge  of  important  events,  and  the  seeds  of  mighty 
designs  to  be  ripened  by  further  meditation.  Solitude  was  to 
such  men  a  release  from  fatigue,  and  an  opportunity  of  usefulness. 
But  what  can  retirement  confer  upon  him,  who,  having  done 
nothing,  can  receive  no  support  from  his  own  importance,  who, 
having  known  nothing,   can  find  no  entertainment   in   reviewing 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  157 

the  past,  and  who  intending  nothing  can  form  no  hopes  from 
prospects  of  the  future  ?  He  can,  surely,  take  no  wiser  course 
than  that  of  losing  himself  again  in  the  crowd,  and  filling  the 
vacuities  of  his  mind  with  the  news  of  the  day. 

Others  consider  solitude  as  the  parent  of  philosophy,  and  retire 
in  expectation  of  greater  intimacies  with  science,  as  Numa 
repaired  to  the  groves  when  he  conferred  with  Egeria.  These 
men  have  not  always  reason  to  repent.  Some  studies  require 
a  continued  prosecution  of  the  same  train  of  thought,  such  as  is 
too  often  interrupted  by  the  petty  avocations  of  common  life : 
sometimes,  likewise,  it  is  necessary,  that  a  multiplicity  of  objects 
be  at  once  present  to  the  mind  ;  and  everything,  therefore,  must 
be  kept  at  a  distance,  which  may  perplex  the  memory,  or  dissipate 
the  attention. 

But,  though  learning  may  be  conferred  by  solitude,  its  applica- 
tion must  be  attained  by  general  converse.  He  has  learned  to 
no  purpose,  that  is  not  able  to  teach  ;  and  he  will  always  teach 
unsuccessfully,  who  cannot  recommend  his  sentiments  by  his 
diction  or  address. 

Even  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  is  often  much  facilitated 
by  the  advantages  of  society  :  he  that  never  compares  his  notions 
with  those  of  others,  readily  acquiesces  in  his  first  thoughts,  and 
very  seldom  discovers  the  objections  which  may  be  raised  against 
his  opinions  ;  he,  therefore,  often  thinks  himself  in  possession  of 
truth,  when  he  is  only  fondling  an  error  long  since  exploded. 
He  that  has  neither  companions  nor  rivals  in  his  studies,  will 
always  applaud  his  own  progress,  and  think  highly  of  his 
performances,  because  he  knows  not  that  others  have  equalled  or 
excelled  him.  And  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  added,  that  the  student 
who  withdraws  himself  from  the  world  will  soon  feel  that  ardour 
extinguished  which  praise  or  emulation  had  enkindled,  and  take 
the  advantage  of  secrecy  to  sleep,  rather  than  to  labour. 

There  remains  yet  another  set  of  recluses,  whose  intention 
entitles  them  to  higher  respect,  and  whose  motives  deserve  a 
more  serious  consideration.  These  retire  from  the  world,  not 
merely  to  bask  in  ease  or  gratify  curiosity  ;  but  that  being 
disengaged  from  common  cares,  they  may  employ  more  time  in 
the  duties  of  religion  :  that  they  may  regulate  their  actions  with 
stricter  vigilance,  and  purify  their  thoughts  by  more  frequent 
meditation. 

To  men  thus  elevated  above  the  mists  of  mortality  I   am  far 


158  ENGLISH  PROSE 


from  presuming  myself  qualified  to  give  directions.  On  him  that 
appears  "  to  pass  through  things  temporary,"  with  no  other  care 
than  "  not  to  lose  finally  the  things  eternal,"  I  look  with  such 
veneration  as  inclines  me  to  approve  his  conduct  in  the  whole,  with- 
out a  minute  examination  of  its  parts,  yet  I  could  never  forbear  to 
wish,  that  while  vice  is  every  day  multiplying  seducements,  and 
stalking  forth  with  more  hardened  effrontery,  virtue  would  not  with- 
draw the  influence  of  her  presence,  or  forbear  to  assert  her  natural 
dignity  by  open  and  undaunted  perseverance  in  the  right.  Piety 
practised  in  solitude,  like  the  flower  that  blooms  in  the  desert, 
may  give  its  fragrance  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  delight  those 
unbodied  spirits  that  survey  the  works  of  God  and  the  actions  of 
men  ;  but  it  bestows  no  assistance  upon  earthly  beings,  and  how- 
ever free  from  taints  of  impurity,  yet  wants  the  sacred  splendour 
of  beneficence. 

Our  Maker,  who,  though  he  gave  us  such  varieties  of  temper 
and  such  difference  of  powers,  yet  designed  us  all  for  happiness, 
undoubtedly  intended  that  we  should  attain  that  happiness  by 
different  means.  Some  are  unable  to  resist  the  temptations  of 
importunity,  or  the  impetuosity  of  their  own  passions  incited  by 
the  force  of  present  temptations  :  of  these  it  is  undoubtedly  the 
duty  to  f]y  from  enemies  which  they  cannot  conquer,  and  to 
cultivate,  in  the  calm  of  solitude,  that  virtue  which  is  too  tender 
to  endure  the  tempests  of  public  life.  But  there  are  others,  whose 
passions  grow  more  strong  and  irregular  in  privacy  ;  and  who 
cannot  maintain  an  uniform  tenor  of  virtue,  but  by  exposing  their 
manners  to  the  public  eye,  and  assisting  the  admonitions  of 
conscience  with  the  fear  of  infamy  :  for  such  it  is  dangerous  to 
exclude  all  witnesses  of  their  conduct,  till  they  have  formed  strong 
habits  of  virtue,  and  weakened  their  passions  by  frequent  victories. 
But  there  is  a  higher  order  of  men  so  inspired  with  ardour,  and 
so  fortified  with  resolution,  that  the  world  passes  before  them 
without  influence  or  regard  ;  these  ought  to  consider  themselves 
as  appointed  the  guardians  of  mankind  :  they  are  placed  in  an 
evil  world,  to  exhibit  public  examples  of  good  life  ;  and  may  be 
said,  when  they  withdraw  to  solitude,  to  desert  the  station  which 
Providence  assigned  them. 

{Ad7>enlitrc>\  No.   126.) 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  159 


CONVERSATION 

To  illustrate  one  thing  by  its  resemblance  to  another  has  been 
always  the  most  popular  and  efficacious  art  of  instruction.  There 
is  indeed  no  other  method  of  teaching  that  of  which  any  one  is 
ignorant  but  by  means  of  something  already  known  ;  and  a  mind 
so  enlarged  by  contemplation  and  inquiry,  that  it  has  always 
many  objects  within  its  view,  will  seldom  be  long  without  some 
near  and  familiar  image  through  which  an  easy  transition  may  be 
made  to  truths  more  distant  and  obscure. 

Of  the  parallels  which  have  been  drawn  by  wit  and  curiosity, 
some  are  literal  and  real,  as  between  poetry  and  painting,  two 
arts  which  pursue  the  same  end,  by  the  operation  of  the  same 
mental  faculties,  and  which  differ  only  as  the  one  represents 
things  by  marks  permanent  and  natural,  the  other  by  signs 
accidental  and  arbitrary.  The  one  therefore  is  more  easily  and 
generally  understood,  since  similitude  of  form  is  immediately 
perceived  ;  the  other  is  capable  of  conveying  more  ideas,  for  men 
have  thought  and  spoken  of  many  things  which  they  do  not  see. 

Other  parallels  are  fortuitous  and  fanciful,  yet  these  have 
sometimes  been  extended  to  many  particulars  of  resemblance  by 
a  lucky  concurrence  of  diligence  and  chance.  The  animal  body 
is  composed  of  many  members,  united  under  the  direction  of  one 
mind  ;  any  number  of  individuals,  connected  for  some  common 
purpose,  is  therefore  called  a  body.  From  this  participation  of 
the  same  appellation  arose  the  comparison  of  the  body  natural 
and  the  body  ])olitic,  of  which,  how  far  soever  it  has  been  deduced, 
no  end  has  hitherto  been  found. 

In  these  imaginary  similitudes,  the  same  word  is  used  at  once 
in  its  primitive  and  metaphorical  sense.  Thus  health  ascribed 
to  the  iDody  natural,  is  opposed  to  sickness  ;  but  attributed  to  the 
body  politic  stands  as  contrary  to  adversity.  These  parallels, 
therefore,  have  more  of  genius  but  less  of  truth  ;  they  often  please 
but  they  never  convince. 

Of  this  kind  is  a  curious  speculation  frequently  indulged  by  a 
philosopher  of  my  acquaintance,  who  had  discovered  that  the 
qualities  requisite  to  conversation  are  very  exactly  represented  by 
a  bowl  of  punch. 

Punch,  says  this  profound  investigator,  is  a  liquor  compounded 


i6o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  spirit  and  acid  juices,  sugar  and  water.  The  spirit,  volatile 
and  fiery,  is  the  proper  emblem  of  vivacity  and  wit  ;  the  acidity 
of  the  lemon  will  very  aptly  figure  pungency  of  raillery,  and 
acrimony  of  censure ;  sugar  is  the  natural  representative  of 
luscious  adulation  and  gentle  complaisance  ;  and  water  is  the 
proper  hieroglyphic  of  easy  prattle,  innocent  and  tasteless. 

Spirit  alone  is  too  powerful  for  use.  It  will  produce  madness 
rather  than  merriment  ;  and  instead  of  quenching  thirst  will 
inflame  the  blood.  Thus  wit,  too  copiously  poured  out,  agitates 
the  hearer  with  emotions  rather  violent  than  pleasing  ;  every  one 
shrinks  from  the  force  of  its  oppression,  the  company  sits  entranced 
and  overpowered  ;  all  are  astonished,  but  nobody  is  pleased. 

The  acid  juices  give  this  genial  liquor  all  its  power  of 
stimulating  the  palate.  Conversation  would  become  dull  and 
vapid,  if  negligence  were  not  sometimes  roused,  and  sluggishness 
ciuickened,  by  due  severity  of  reprehension.  But  acids  unmixed 
will  distort  the  face,  and  torture  the  palate  ;  and  he  that  has  no 
other  qualities  than  penetration  and  asperity,  he  whose  constant 
employment  is  detection  and  censure,  who  looks  only  to  find 
faults,  and  speaks  only  to  punish  them,  will  soon  be  dreaded, 
hated,  and  avoided. 

The  taste  of  sugar  is  generally  pleasing,  but  it  cannot  long  be 
eaten  by  itself  Thus  meekness  and  courtesy  will  always 
recommend  the  first  address,  but  soon  pall  and  nauseate,  unless 
they  are  associated  with  more  sprightly  qualities.  The  chief  use 
of  sugar  is  to  temper  the  taste  of  other  substances,  and  softness 
of  behaviour  in  the  same  manner  mitigates  the  roughness  of 
contradiction,  and  allays  the  bitterness  of  unwelcome  truth. 

Water  is  the  universal  vehicle  by  which  are  conveyed  the 
particles  necessary  to  sustenance  and  growth,  by  which  thirst  is 
quenched,  and  all  the  wants  of  life  and  nature  are  supplied. 
Thus  all  the  business  of  the  world  is  transacted  by  artless  and 
easy  talk,  neither  sublimed  by  fancy,  nor  discoloured  by  affecta- 
tion, without  either  the  harshness  of  satire,  or  the  lusciousness  of 
flattery.  By  this  limpid  vein  of  language,  curiosity  is  gratified, 
and  all  the  knowledge  is  conveyed  which  one  man  is  required  to 
impart  for  the  safety  or  convenience  of  another.  Water  is  the 
only  ingredient  of  punch  which  can  be  used  alone,  and  with  which 
man  is  content  till  fancy  has  framed  an  artificial  want.  Thus 
while  we  only  desire  to  have  our  ignorance  infonned,  we  are 
most  delighted  with  the  plainest  diction  ;  and  it  is  only  in  the 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  i6i 

moments  of  idleness  or  j^i'ide,  that  we  call  for  the  gratifications  of 
wit  or  flattery. 

He  will  only  please  long,  who,  by  tempering  the  acid  of  satire 
with  the  sugar  of  civility,  and  allaying  the  heat  of  wit  with  the 
frigidity  of  humble  chat,  can  make  the  true  punch  of  conversation  ; 
and  as  that  punch  can  be  drunk  in  the  greatest  quantity  which 
has  the  largest  proportion  of  water,  so  that  companion  will  be  the 
oftenest  welcome,  whose  talk  flows  out  with  inoffensive  copious- 
ness, and  unenvied  insipidity. 

(From  The  Idler.) 

STYLE 

Few  faults  of  style,  whether  real  or  imaginary,  excite  the 
malignity  of  a  more  numerous  class  of  readers,  than  the  use  of 
hard  words. 

If  an  author  be  supposed  to  involve  his  thoughts  in  voluntary 
obscurity,  and  to  obstruct,  by  unnecessary  difficulties,  a  mind 
eager  in  pursuit  of  truth  ;  if  he  writes  not  to  make  others  learned, 
but  to  boast  the  learning  which  he  possesses  himself,  and  wishes 
to  be  admired  rather  than  understood,  he  counteracts  the  first 
end  of  writing,  and  justly  suffers  the  utmost  severity  of  censure, 
or  the  more  afflictive  severity  of  neglect. 

But  words  are  only  hard  to  those  who  do  not  understand  them, 
and  the  critic  ought  always  to  inquire,  whether  he  is  incommoded 
by  the  fault  of  the  writer,  or  by  his  own. 

Every  author  does  not  write  for  every  reader  ;  many  questions 
are  such  as  the  illiterate  part  of  mankind  can  have  neither  interest 
nor  pleasure  in  discussing,  and  which  therefore  it  would  be  an 
useless  endeavour  to  level  with  common  minds,  by  tiresome 
circumlocutions  or  laborious  explanations  ;  and  many  subjects  of 
general  use  may  be  treated  in  a  different  manner,  as  the  book  is 
intended  for  the  learned  or  the  ignorant.  Diffusion  and  explica- 
tion are  necessary  to  the  instruction  of  those  who,  being  neither 
able  nor  accustomed  to  think  for  themselves,  can  learn  only  what 
is  expressly  taught  ;  but  they  who  can  form  parallels,  discover 
consequences,  and  multiply  conclusions,  are  best  pleased  with 
involution  of  argument  and  compression  of  thought ;  they  desire 
only  to  receive  the  seeds  of  knowledge  which  they  may  branch 
out  by  their  own  power,  to  have  the  way  to  truth  pointed  out 
which  they  can  then  follow  without  a  guide, 

VOL.  IV  M 


i62  ENGLISH  PROSE 


The  Guardian  directs  one  of  his  pupils  to  tJiink  ivitJi  the  ivise, 
but  speak  with  the  vulgar.  This  is  a  precept  specious  enough, 
but  not  always  practicable.  Difference  of  thoughts  will  produce 
difference  of  language.  He  that  thinks  with  more  extent  than 
another  will  want  words  of  larger  meaning ;  he  that  thinks  with 
more  subtlety  will  seek  for  terms  of  more  nice  discrimination  : 
and  where  is  the  wonder,  since  words  are  but  the  images  of  things, 
that  he  who  never  knew  the  original  should  not  know  the  copies  ? 

Yet  vanity  inclines  us  to  find  faults  anywhere  rather  than  in 
ourselves.  He  that  reads  and  grows  no  wiser,  seldom  suspects 
his  own  deficiency  :  but  complains  of  hard  words  and  obscure 
sentences,  and  asks  why  books  are  written  which  cannot  be 
understood. 

Among  the  hard  words  which  are  no  longer  to  be  used,  it  has 
long  been  the  custom  to  number  terms  of  art.  "  Every  man," 
says  Swift,  "is  more  able  to  explain  the  subject  of  an  art  than  its 
professors  :  a  farmer  will  tell  you,  in  two  words,  that  he  has 
broken  his  leg  ;  but  a  surgeon,  after  a  long  discourse,  shall  leave 
you  as  ignorant  as  you  were  before."  This  could  only  have  been 
said  by  such  an  exact  observer  of  life,  in  gratification  of  malignity, 
or  in  ostentation  of  acuteness.  Every  hour  produces  instances  of 
the  necessity  of  temis  of  art.  Mankind  could  never  conspire  in 
uniform  affectation  :  it  is  not  but  by  necessity  that  every 
science  and  every  trade  has  its  peculiar  language.  They  that 
content  themselves  with  general  ideas  may  rest  in  general  terms  ; 
but  those  whose  studies  or  employments  force  them  upon  closer 
inspection,  must  have  names  for  particular  parts,  and  words  by 
which  they  may  express  various  modes  of  combination,  such  as 
none  but  themselves  have  occasion  to  consider. 

Artists  are  indeed  sometimes  ready  to  suppose  that  none  can 
be  strangers  to  words  to  which  themselves  are  familiar,  talk  to  an 
incidental  inciuirer  as  they  talk  to  one  another,  and  make  their 
knowledge  ridiculous  by  injudicious  obtrusion.  An  art  cannot  be 
taught  but  by  its  proper  terms,  but  it  is  not  always  necessaiy  to 
teach  the  art. 

That  the  vulgar  express  their  thoughts  clearly  is  far  from  true  ; 
and  what  perspicuity  can  be  found  among  them  proceeds  not  from 
the  easiness  of  their  language,  but  the  shallowness  of  their  thoughts. 
He  that  sees  a  building  as  a  common  spectator,  contents  himself 
with  relating  that  it  is  great  or  little,  mean  or  splendid,  lofty  or 
low  ;  all  these  words  are  intelligible  and  common,  but  they  convey 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  163 

no  distinct  or  limited  ideas  ;  if  he  attempts,  without  the  terms  of 
architecture,  to  dehneate  the  parts,  or  enumerate  the  ornaments, 
his  narration  at  once  becomes  unintelligible.  The  terms,  indeed, 
generally  displease,  because  they  are  understood  by  few,  but  they 
are  little  understood  only  because  few  that  look  upon  an  edifice, 
examine  its  parts,  or  analyse  its  columns  into  their  members. 

The  state  of  every  other  art  is  the  same  ;  as  it  is  cursorily 
surveyed  or  accurately  examined,  different  forms  of  expression 
become  proper.  In  morality  it  is  one  thing  to  discuss  the  niceties 
of  the  casuist,  and  another  to  direct  the  practice  of  common  life. 
In  agriculture,  he  that  instructs  the  farmer  to  plough  and  sow, 
may  convey  his  notions  without  the  words  which  he  would  find 
necessary  in  explaining  to  philosophers  the  process  of  vegetation  ; 
and  if  he,  who  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  honest  by  the  shortest 
way,  will  perplex  his  mind  with  subtle  speculations ;  or  if  he, 
whose  task  is  to  reap  and  thresh,  will  not  be  contented  without 
examining  the  evolution  of  the  seed  and  circulation  of  the  sap, 
the  writers  whom  either  shall  consult  are  very  little  to  be  blamed, 
though  it  should  sometimes  happen  that  they  are  read  in  vain. 

(From  the  Same.) 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

It  is  common  to  overlook  what  is  near,  by  keeping  the  eye  fixed 
upon  something  remote.  In  the  same  manner  present  opportuni- 
ties are  neglected,  and  attainable  good  is  slighted,  by  minds 
busied  in  extensive  ranges,  and  intent  upon  future  advantages. 
Life,  however  short,  is  made  still  shorter  by  waste  of  time,  and  its 
progress  towards  happiness,  though  naturally  slow,  is  yet  retarded 
by  unnecessary  labour. 

The  difficulty  of  obtaining  knowledge  is  universally  confessed. 
To  fix  deeply  in  the  mind  the  principles  of  science,  to  settle  their 
limitations,  and  deduce  the  long  succession  of  their  consequences  ; 
to  comprehend  the  whole  compass  of  complicated  systems,  with 
all  the  arguments,  objections,  and  solutions,  and  to  reposit  in  the  in- 
tellectual treasury  the  numl^erless  facts,  experiments,  apophthcg'ms, 
and  positions,  which  must  stand  single  in  the  memory,  and  of 
which  none  has  any  perceptible  connection  with  the  rest,  is  a  task 


i64  ENGLISH  rROSE 


which,  though  undertaken  with  ardour  and  pursued  with  dihgence, 
must  at  last  be  left  unfinished  by  the  frailty  of  our  nature. 

To  make  the  way  to  learning  either  less  short  or  less  smooth, 
is  certainly  absurd  ;  yet  this  is  the  apparent  effect  of  the  prejudice 
which  seems  to  prevail  among  us  in  favour  of  foreign  authors, 
and  of  the  contempt  of  our  native  literature,  which  this  excursive 
curiosity  must  necessarily  produce.  Every  man  is  more  speedily 
instructed  by  his  own  language  than  by  any  other  ;  before  we 
search  the  rest  of  the  world  for  teachers,  let  us  try  whether  we 
may  not  spare  our  trouble  by  finding  them  at  home. 

The  riches  of  the  English  language  are  much  greater  than 
they  are  commonly  supposed.  Many  useful  and  valuable  books 
lie  buried  in  shops  and  libraries,  unknown  and  unexamined,  unless 
some  lucky  compiler  opens  them  by  chance,  and  finds  an  easy 
spoil  of  wit  and  learning.  I  am  far  from  intending  to  insinuate, 
that  other  languages  are  not  necessary  to  him  who  aspires  to 
eminence,  and  whose  whole  life  is  devoted  to  study  ;  but  to  him 
who  reads  only  for  amusement,  or  whose  purpose  is  not  to  deck 
himself  with  the  honours  of  literature,  but  to  be  qualified  for 
domestic  usefulness,  and  sit  down  content  with  subordinate  repu- 
tation, we  have  authors  sufficient  to  fill  up  all  the  vacancies  of  his 
time,  and  gratify  most  of  his  wishes  for  information. 

Of  our  poets  I  need  say  little,  because  they  are  perhaps  the 
only  authors  to  whom  their  country  has  done  justice.  We  consider 
the  whole  succession  from  Spencer  to  Pope,  as  superior  to  any 
names  which  the  continent  can  boast ;  and  therefore  the  poets  of 
other  nations,  however  familiarly  they  may  be  sometimes 
mentioned,  are  very  little  read,  except  by  those  who  design  to 
borrow  their  beauties. 

There  is,  I  think,  not  one  of  the  liberal  arts  which  may  not  be 
competently  learned  in  the  English  language.  He  that  searches 
after  mathematical  knowledge  may  busy  himself  among  his  own 
countrymen,  and  will  find  one  or  other  able  to  instruct  him  in 
every  part  of  those  abstruse  sciences.  He  that  is  delighted  with 
experiments,  and  wishes  to  know  the  nature  of  bodies  from 
certain  and  visible  effects,  is  happily  placed  where  the  mechanical 
philosophy  was  first  established  by  a  public  institution,  and  from 
which  it  was  spread  to  all  other  countries. 

The  more  airy  and  elegant  studies  of  philology  and  criticism 
have  little  need  of  any  foreign  help.  Though  our  language,  not 
lieing  very  analogical,   gives    few   opportunities   for  grammatical 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  165 

researches,  yet  we  have  not  wanted  authors  who  have  considered 
the  principles  of  speech  ;  and  with  critical  writings  we  abound 
sufficiently  to  enable  pedantry  to  impose  rules  which  can  seldom 
be  observed,  and  vanity  to  talk  of  books  which  are  seldom  read. 

But  our  own  language  has,  from  the  Reformation  to  the  present 
time,  been  chiefly  dignified  and  adorned  by  the  works  of  our 
divines,  who,  considered  as  commentators,  controvertists,  or 
preachers  have  undoubtedly  left  all  other  nations  far  behind  them. 
No  vulgar  language  can  boast  such  treasures  of  theological 
knowledge,  or  such  multitudes  of  authors  at  once  learned,  elegant, 
and  pious.  Other  countries  and  other  communions  have  authors 
perhaps  equal  in  abilities  and  diligence  to  ours  ;  but  if  we  unite 
number  with  excellence  there  is  certainly  no  nation  which  must 
not  allow  us  to  be  superior.  Of  morality  little  is  necessary  to  be 
said,  because  it  is  comprehended  in  practical  divinity,  and  it  is 
perhaps  better  taught  in  English  sermons  than  in  any  other  books 
ancient  and  modern.  Nor  shall  I  dwell  on  our  excellence  in 
metaphysical  speculations,  because  he  that  reads  the  works  of  our 
divines  will  easily  discover  how  far  human  subtlety  has  been  able 
to  penetrate. 

Political  knowledge  is  forced  upon  us  by  the  form  of  our 
constitution  ;  and  all  the  mysteries  of  government  are  discovered 
in  the  attack  or  defence  of  every  minister.  The  original  law  of 
society,  the  rights  of  subjects,  and  the  prerogatives  of  kings,  have 
been  considered  with  the  utmost  nicety,  sometimes  profoundly 
investigated,  and  sometimes  familiarly  explained. 

Thus  copiously  instructive  is  the  English  language,  and  thus 

needless  is  all  recourse  to  foreign  writers.      Let  us  not  therefore 

make  our  neighbours  proud  by  soliciting  help  which  we  do  not 

want,  nor  discourage  our  own  industry  by  difficulties  which   we 

need  not  suffer.  ,„  ,      ,,  , 

(1*  rom  the  Same.) 


THE    FLYING    MACHINE 

Among  the  artists  that  had  been  allured  into  the  happy  valley, 
to  labour  for  the  accommodation  and  pleasure  of  its  inhabitants, 
was  a  man  eminent  for  his  knowledge  of  the  mechanic  powers, 
who   had   contrived   many  engines   both    of  use  and    recreation. 


1 66  ENGLISH  PROSE 


By  a  wheel,  which  the  stream  turned,  he  forced  the  water  into  a 
tower,  whence  it  was  distributed  to  all  the  apartments  of  the 
palace.  He  erected  a  pavilion  in  the  garden,  around  which  he 
kept  the  air  always  cool  by  artificial  showers.  One  of  the  groves, 
appropriated  to  the  ladies,  was  ventilated  by  fans,  to  which  the 
rivulet  that  ran  through  it  gave  a  constant  motion  ;  and  instru- 
ments of  soft  music  were  placed  at  proper  distances,  of  which 
some  played  by  the  impulse  of  the  wind,  and  some  by  the  power 
of  the  stream. 

This  artist  was  sometimes  visited  by  Rasselas,  who  was  pleased 
with  every  kind  of  knowledge,  imagining  that  the  time  would 
come  when  all  his  acquisitions  should  be  of  use  to  him  in  the 
open  world.  He  came  one  day  to  amuse  himself  in  his  usual 
manner,  and  found  the  master  busy  in  building  a  sailing  chariot : 
he  saw  that  the  design  was  practicable  upon  a  level  surface,  and 
with  expressions  of  great  esteem  solicited  its  completion.  The 
workman  was  pleased  to  find  himself  so  much  regarded  by  the 
prince,  and  resolved  to  gain  yet  higher  honours.  "  Sir,"  said  he, 
"  you  have  seen  but  a  small  part  of  what  the  mechanic  sciences 
can  perform.  I  have  been  long  of  opinion,  that  instead  of  the 
tardy  conveyance  of  ships  and  chariots,  man  might  use  the 
swifter  migration  of  wings  ;  that  the  fields  of  air  are  open  to 
knowledge,  and  that  only  ignorance  and  idleness  need  crawl 
upon  the  ground." 

This  hint  rekindled  the  prince's  desire  of  passing  the  mountains  ; 
having  seen  what  the  mechanist  had  already  performed,  he  was 
willing  to  fancy  that  he  could  do  more  ;  yet  resolved  to  inquire 
further,  before  he  suffered  hope  to  afflict  him  by  disappointment. 
"  I  am  afraid,"  said  he  to  the  artist,  "  that  your  imagination 
prevails  over  your  skill,  and  that  you  now  tell  me  rather  what  you 
wish,  than  what  you  know.  Every  animal  has  his  element 
assigned  him  ;  the  birds  have  the  air,  and  man  and  beasts  the 
earth."  "  So,"  replied  the  mechanist,  "  fishes  have  the  water,  in 
which  yet  beasts  can  swim  by  nature,  and  men  by  art.  He  that 
can  swim  needs  not  despair  to  fly  :  to  swim  is  to  fly  in  a  grosser 
fluid,  and  to  fly  is  to  swim  in  a  subtler.  We  are  only  to  proportion 
our  power  of  resistance  to  the  different  density  of  matter  through 
which  we  are  to  pass.  You  will  be  necessarily  upborne  by  the 
air,  if  you  can  renew  any  impulse  upon  it,  faster  than  the  air  can 
recede  from  the  pressure." 

"  But    the  e.Kercise  of  swimming,"   said    the  prince,    "  is  very 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  167 


laborious  ;  the  strongest  limbs  are  soon  wearied  ;  I  am  afraid  the 
art  of  flying  will  be  yet  more  violent,  and  wings  will  be  of  no 
great  use,  unless  we  can  fly  further  than  we  can  swim." 

"  The  labour  of  rising  from  the  ground,"  said  the  artist,  "  will 
be  great,  as  we  see  it  in  the  heavier  domestic  fowls,  but  as  we 
mount  higher,  the  earth's  attraction,  and  the  body's  gravity,  will 
be  gradually  diminished,  till  we  shall  arrive  at  a  region  where 
the  man  will  float  in  the  air  without  any  tendency  to  fall  :  no  care 
will  then  be  necessary  but  to  move  forwards,  which  the  gentlest 
impulse  will  effect.  You,  sir,  whose  curiosity  is  so  extensive, 
will  easily  conceive  with  what  pleasure  a  philosopher  furnished 
with  wings,  and  hovering  in  the  sky,  would  see  the  earth,  and 
all  its  inhabitants,  rolling  beneath  him,  and  presenting  to  him 
successively,  by  its  diurnal  motion,  all  the  countries  within  the 
same  parallel.  How  must  it  amuse  the  pendent  spectator  to  see 
the  moving  scene  of  land  and  ocean,  cities  and  deserts  !  To 
survey  with  ec|ual  security  the  marts  of  trade,  and  the  fields  of 
battle ;  mountains  infested  by  barbarians,  and  fruitful  regions 
gladdened  by  plenty,  and  lulled  by  peace !  How  easily  shall 
we  then  trace  the  Nile  through  all  his  passage  ;  pass  over  to 
distant  regions,  and  examine  the  face  of  nature  from  one  extremity 
of  the  earth  to  the  other  !  " 

"  All  this,"  said  the  prince,  "  is  much  to  be  desired  ;  but  I  am 
afraid  that  no  man  will  be  able  to  breathe  in  these  regions  of 
speculation  and  tranquillity.  I  have  been  told,  that  respiration  is 
difficult  upon  lofty  mountains,  yet  from  these  precipices,  though 
so  high  as  to  produce  great  tenuity  of  air,  it  is  veiy  easy  to  fall : 
therefore  I  suspect,  that  from  any  height,  where  life  can  be 
supported,  there  may  be  danger  of  too  quick  descent." 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  artist,  "  will  ever  be  attempted,  if  all 
possible  objections  must  be  first  overcome.  If  you  will  favour 
my  project,  I  will  try  the  first  flight  at  my  own  hazard.  1  have 
considered  the  structure  of  all  volant  animals,  and  find  the 
folding  continuity  of  the  bat's  wings  most  easily  accommodated  to 
the  human  form.  Upon  this  model  I  shall  begin  my  task  to- 
morrow, and  in  a  year  expect  to  tower  into  the  air  beyond  the 
malice  and  pursuit  of  man.  But  I  will  work  only  on  this  condition, 
that  the  art  shall  not  be  divulged,  and  that  you  shall  not  require 
me  to  make  wings  for  any  but  ourselves.'' 

"Why,"  said  Rasselas,  "should  you  envy  others  so  great  an 
advantage  t     All  skill  ought    to  be  exerted   for  universal  good  ; 


1 68  ENGLISH  PROSE 


every  man  has  owed  much  to  others,  and  ought  to  repay  the 
kindness  that  he  has  received." 

"  If  men  were  all  virtuous,"  returned  the  artist,  "  I  should 
with  great  alacrity  teach  them  all  to  fly.  But  what  would  be  the 
security  of  the  good,  if  the  bad  could  at  pleasure  invade  them 
from  the  sky  ?  Against  an  army  sailing  throagh  the  clouds, 
neither  wails,  nor  mountains,  nor  seas,  could  afford  any  security. 
A  flight  of  northern  savages  might  hover  in  the  wind,  and  light 
at  once  with  irresistible  violence  upon  the  capital  of  a  fruitful 
region  that  was  rolling  under  them.  Even  this  valley,  the  retreat 
of  princes,  the  abode  of  happiness,  might  be  violated  by  the 
sudden  descent  of  some  of  the  naked  nations  that  swann  on  the 
coast  of  the  southern  sea." 

The  prince  promised  secrecy,  and  waited  for  the  performance, 
not  wholly  hopeless  of  success.  He  visited  the  work  from  time 
to  time,  observed  its  progress,  and  remarked  many  ingenious 
contrivances  to  facilitate  motion,  and  unite  levity  with  strength. 
The  artist  was  every  day  more  certain  that  he  should  leave 
vultures  and  eagles  behind  him,  and  the  contagion  of  his  con- 
fidence seized  upon  the  prince. 

In  a  year  the  wings  were  finished,  and,  on  a  morning  appointed, 
the  maker  appeared  furnished  for  flight  on  a  little  promontory  : 
he  waved  his  pinions  a  while  to  gather  air,  then  leaped  from  his 
stand,  and  in  an  instant  dropped  into  the  lake.  His  wings, 
which  were  of  no  use  in  the  air,  sustained  him  in  the  water,  and 
the  prince  drew  him  to  land,  half  dead  with  terror  and  vexation. 

(From  Rasschis.) 


POETRY 

Wherever  I  went,  I  found  that  poetry  was  considered  as  the 
highest  learning,  and  regarded  with  a  veneration  somewhat 
approaching  to  that  which  man  would  pay  to  the  Angelic  Nature. 
And  yet  it  fills  me  with  wonder,  that,  in  almost  all  countries,  the 
most  ancient  poets  are  considered  as  the  best  :  whether  it  be  that 
every  other  kind  of  knowledge  is  an  acquisition  gradually  attained, 
and  poetry  is  a  gift  conferred  at  once  ;  or  that  the  first  poetry  of 
every  nation  surprised  them  as  a  novelty,  and  retained  the  credit 
by  consent  which  it  received  by  accident  at  first :  or  whether,  as 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  169 

the  province  of  poetry  is  to  describe  Nature  and  Passion,  which 
are  always  the  same,  the  first  writers  took  possession  of  the  most 
striking  objects  for  description,  and  the  inost  probable  occurrences 
for  fiction,  and  left  nothing  to  those  that  followed  them,  but 
transcription  of  the  same  events,  and  new  combinations  of  the 
same  images.  Whatever  be  the  reason,  it  is  commonly  observed 
that  the  early  writers  are  in  possession  of  nature,  and  their 
followers  of  art :  that  the  first  excel  in  streng'th  and  invention, 
and  the  latter  in  elegance  and  refinement. 

I  was  desirous  to  add  my  name  to  this  illustrious  fraternity. 
I  read  all  the  poets  of  Persia  and  Arabia,  and  was  able  to  repeat 
by  memory  the  volumes  that  are  suspended  in  the  mosque  of 
Mecca.  But  I  soon  found  that  no  man  was  ever  great  by 
imitation.  My  desire  of  excellence  impelled  me  to  transfer  my 
attention  to  nature  and  to  life.  Nature  was  to  be  my  subject, 
and  men  to  be  my  auditors  :  I  could  never  describe  that  I  had 
not  seen  :  I  could  not  hope  to  move  those  with  delight  or  terror, 
whose  interests  and  opinions  I  did  not  understand. 

Being  now  resolved  to  be  a  poet,  I  saw  everything  with  a 
new  purpose  ;  my  sphere  of  attention  was  suddenly  magnified  : 
no  kind  of  knowledge  was  to  be  overlooked.  1  ranged  mountains 
and  deserts  for  images  and  resemblances,  and  pictured  upon  my 
mind  every  tree  of  the  forest  and  flower  of  the  valley.  I  observed 
with  equal  care  the  crags  of  the  rock  and  the  pinnacles  of  the 
palace.  Sometimes  I  wandered  along  the  mazes  of  the  rivulet, 
and  sometimes  watched  the  changes  of  the  summer  clouds.  To 
a  poet  nothing  can  be  useless.  Whatever  is  beautiful,  and  what- 
ever is  dreadful,  must  be  familiar  to  his  imagination  :  he  must  be 
conversant  with  all  that  is  awfully  vast  or  elegantly  little.  The 
plants  of  the  garden,  the  animals  of  the  wood,  the  minerals  of  the 
earth,  and  meteors  of  the  sky,  must  all  concur  to  store  his  mind 
with  inexhaustible  variety  :  for  every  idea  is  useful  for  the  enforce- 
ment or  decoration  of  moral  or  religious  truth  ;  and  he  who 
knows  most  will  have  most  power  of  diversifying  his  scenes,  and 
of  gratifying  his  reader  with  remote  allusions  and  unexpected 
instruction. 

"  All  the  appearances  of  nature  I  was  therefore  careful  to 
study,  and  every  country  which  I  have  surveyed  has  contributed 
something  to  my  poetical  powers." 

"  In  so  wide  a  survey,"  said  the  prince,  "  you  must  surely 
have  left  much   unobserved.      1   have   lived,   till   now,   within   the 


i7o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


circuit  of  these  mountains,  and  yet  cannot  walk  abroad  without 
the  sight  of  something  which  I  had  never  beheld  before,  or  never 
heeded." 

"The  business  of  a  poet,"  said  Imlac,  "is  to  examine,  not  the 
individual,  but  the  species  ;  to  remark  general  properties  and 
large  appearances  ;  he  does  not  number  the  streaks  of  the  tulip, 
or  describe  the  different  shades  in  the  verdure  of  the  forest.  He 
is  to  exhibit  in  his  portraits  of  nature  such  prominent  and  striking 
features,  as  recall  the  original  to  every  mind  ;  and  must  neglect 
the  minuter  discriminations,  which  one  may  have  remarked,  and 
another  have  neglected,  for  those  characteristics  which  are  alike 
obvious  to  vigilance  and  carelessness. 

But  the  knowledge  of  nature  is  only  half  the  task  of  a  poet ; 
he  must  be  acquainted  likewise  with  all  the  modes  of  life.  His 
character  requires  that  he  estimate  the  happiness  and  misery  of 
every  condition  ;  observe  the  power  of  all  the  passions  in  all  their 
combinations,  and  trace  the  changes  of  the  human  mind  as  they 
are  modified  by  various  institutions  and  accidental  influences  of 
climate  or  custom,  from  the  sprightliness  of  infancy  to  the 
despondence  of  decrepitude.  He  must  divest  himself  of  the 
prejudices  of  his  age  or  country  ;  he  must  consider  right  and 
wrong  in  their  abstracted  and  invariable  state  ;  he  must  disregard 
present  laws  and  opinions,  and  rise  to  general  and  transcendental 
truths,  which  will  always  be  the  same  :  he  must  therefore  content 
himself  with  the  slow  progress  of  his  name  ;  contemn  the  applause 
of  his  own  time,  and  commit  his  claims  to  the  justice  of  posterity. 
He  must  write  as  the  interpreter  of  nature,  and  the  legislator  of 
mankind,  and  consider  himself  as  presiding  over  the  thoughts 
and  manners  of  future  generations  ;  as  a  being  superior  to  time 
and  place. 

"  His  labour  is  not  yet  at  an  end :  he  must  know  many 
languages  and  many  sciences  ;  and,  that  his  style  may  be  worthy 
of  his  thoughts,  must,  by  incessant  practice,  familiarise  to  himself 
every  delicacy  of  speech  and  grace  of  harmony." 

Imlac  now  felt  the  enthusiastic  fit,  and  was  proceeding  to 
aggrandise  his  own  profession,  when  the  Prince  cried  out, 
"  Enough  !  thou  hast  convinced  me,  that  no  human  being  can 
ever  be  a  poet."  (Pro„,  the  Same.) 


SAAIUEL  JOHNSON  1 7 1 


A  LIFE  ACCORDING  TO   NATURE 

Rasselas  went  often  to  an  assembly  of  learned  men,  who  met  at 
stated  times  to  unbend  their  minds,  and  compare  their  opinions. 
Their  manners  were  somewhat  coarse,  but  their  conversation  was 
instructive,  and  their  disputations  acute,  though  sometimes  too 
violent,  and  often  continued  till  neither  controvertist  remembered 
upon  what  question  they  began.  Some  faults  were  almost 
general  among  them  :  every  one  was  desirous  to  dictate  to  the 
rest,  and  every  one  was  pleased  to  hear  the  genius  or  knowledge 
of  another  depreciated. 

In  this  assembly  Rasselas  was  relating  his  interview  with  the 
hermit,  and  the  wonder  with  which  he  heard  him  censure  a  course 
of  life  which  he  had  so  deliberately  chosen,  and  so  laudably 
followed.  The  sentiments  of  the  hearers  were  various.  Some 
were  of  opinion,  that  the  folly  of  his  choice  had  been  justly 
punished  by  condemnation  to  perpetual  perseverance.  One  of 
the  youngest  among  them,  with  great  vehemence,  pronounced 
him  a  hypocrite.  Some  talked  of  the  right  of  society  to  the 
labour  of  individuals,  and  considered  retirement  as  a  desertion  of 
duty.  Others  readily  allowed,  that  there  was  a  time  when  the 
claims  of  the  people  were  satisfied,  and  when  a  man  might 
properly  sequester  himself  to  review  his  life,  and  purify  his  heart. 

One  who  appeared  more  affected  with  the  narrative  than  the 
rest,  thought  it  likely,  that  the  hermit  would  in  a  few  years,  go 
back  to  his  retreat,  and,  perhaps  if  shame  did  not  restrain,  or 
death  intercept  him,  return  once  more  from  his  retreat  into  the 
world  :  "  For  the  hope  of  happiness,"  said  he,  "  is  so  strongly 
impressed,  that  the  longest  experience  is  not  able  to  efface  it. 
Of  the  present  state,  whatever  it  be,  we  feel,  and  are  forced  to 
confess,  the  misery ;  yet,  when  the  same  state  is  again  at  a 
distance,  imagination  paints  it  as  desirable.  But  the  time  will 
surely  come,  when  desire  will  be  no  longer  our  tomient,  and  no 
man  shall  be  wretched  but  by  his  own  fault." 

"  This,"  said  a  philosopher,  who  had  heard  him  with  tokens 
of  great  impatience,  "  is  the  present  condition  of  a  wise  man. 
The  time  is  already  come,  when  none  are  wretched  but  by  their 
own  fault.  Nothing  is  more  idle,  than  to  inquire  after  happiness, 
which  nature  has  kindly  placed  within  our  reach.     The  way  to  be 


172  ENGLISH  rROSE 


happy  is  to  live  according  to  nature,  in  obedience  to  that  universal 
and  unalterable  law  with  which  every  heart  is  originally  impressed  ; 
which  is  not  written  on  it  by  precept,  but  engraven  by  destiny, 
not  instilled  by  education,  but  infused  at  our  nativity.  He  that 
lives  according  to  nature  will  suffer  nothing  from  the  delusions  of 
hope,  or  importunities  of  desire  :  he  will  receive  and  reject  with 
equability  of  temper  ;  and  act  or  suffer  as  the  reason  of  things 
shall  alternately  prescribe.  Other  men  may  amuse  themselves 
with  subtle  definitions,  or  intricate  ratiocinations.  Let  them 
learn  to  be  wise  by  easier  means  :  let  them  observe  the  hind  of 
the  forest,  and  the  linnet  of  the  grove  :  let  them  consider  the  life 
of  animals,  whose  motions  are  regulated  by  instinct ;  they  obey 
their  guide  and  are  happy.  Let  us  therefore,  at  length,  cease  to 
dispute,  and  learn  to  live ;  throw  away  the  incumbrance  of 
precepts,  which  they  who  utter  them  with  so  much  pride  and 
pomp  do  not  understand,  and  carry  with  us  this  simple  and 
intelligiljle  maxim,  That  deviation  from  nature  is  deviation  from 
happiness." 

When  he  had  spoken,  he  looked  round  him  with  a  placid  air, 
and  enjoyed  the  consciousness  of  his  own  beneficence.  "  Sir," 
said  the  prince,  with  great  modesty,  "as  I,  like  all  the  rest  of 
mankind,  am  desirous  of  felicity,  my  closest  attention  has  been 
fixed  upon  your  discourse  :  I  doubt  not  the  truth  of  a  position 
which  a  man  so  learned  has  so  confidently  advanced.  Let  me 
only  know  what  it  is  to  live  according  to  nature." 

"  When  I  find  young  men  so  humble  and  so  docile,"  said  the 
philosopher,  "  I  can  deny  them  no  information  which  my  studies 
have  enabled  me  to  afford.  To  live  according  to  nature,  is  to 
act  always  with  due  regard  to  the  fitness  arising  from  the  relations 
and  qualities  of  causes  and  effects  ;  to  concur  with  the  great  and 
unchangeable  scheme  of  universal  felicity ;  to  co-operate  with  the 
general  disposition  and  tendency  of  the  present  system  of  things." 

The  prince  soon  found  that  this  was  one  of  the  sages  whom 
he  should  understand  less  as  he  heard  him  longer.  He  therefore 
bowed  and  was  silent,  and  the  philosopher,  supposing  him 
satisfied,  and  the  rest  vanquished,  rose  up  and  departed  with  the 
air  of  a  man  that  had  co-operated  with  the  present  system. 


(From  the  Same.) 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  173 


THE   LOSS  OF  A  FRIEND 

"  Since  Pekuah  was  taken  from  me  "  said  the  princess,  "  I  have 
no  pleasure  to  reject  or  to  retain.  She  that  has  no  one  to  love 
or  trust  has  little  to  hope.  She  wants  the  radical  principle  of 
happiness.  We  may,  perhaps,  allow  that  what  satisfaction  this 
world  can  afford,  must  arise  from  the  conjunction  of  wealth, 
knowledge,  and  goodness  :  wealth  is  nothing  but  as  it  is  bestowed, 
and  knowledge  nothing  but  as  it  is  communicated  ;  they  must 
therefore  be  imparted  to  others,  and  to  whom  could  I  now  delight 
to  impart  them  ?  Goodness  affords  the  only  comfort  which  can 
be  enjoyed  without  a  partner,  and  goodness  may  be  practised  in 
retirement." 

"  How  far  solitude  may  admit  goodness  or  advance  it,  I  shall 
not,"  replied  Imlac,  "dispute  at  present.  Remember  the  confession 
of  the  pious  hermit.  You  will  wish  to  return  into  the  world  when 
the  image  of  your  companion  has  left  your  thoughts."  "That 
time,"  said  Nekayah,  "  will  never  come.  The  generous  frankness, 
the  modest  obsequiousness,  and  the  faithful  secrecy  of  my  dear 
Pekuah,  will  always  be  more  missed,  as  I  shall  live  longer  to  see 
vice  and  folly." 

"The  state  of  a  mind  oppressed  with  a  sudden  calamity," 
said  Imlac,  "  is  like  that  of  the  fabulous  inhabitants  of  the  new 
created  earth,  who  when  the  first  night  came  upon  them,  supposed 
that  day  would  never  return.  When  the  clouds  of  sorrow  gather 
over  us,  we  see  nothing  beyond  them,  nor  can  imagine  how  they 
will  be  dispelled  :  yet  a  new  day  succeeded  to  the  night,  and 
sorrow  is  never  long  without  a  dawn  of  ease.  But  they  who 
restrain  themselves  from  receiving  comfort,  do  as  the  savages 
would  have  done,  had  they  put  out  their  eyes  when  it  was  dark. 
Our  minds,  like  our  bodies,  are  in  continual  flux  ;  something  is 
hourly  lost,  and  something  acquired.  To  lose  much  at  once  is 
inconvenient  to  either,  but  while  the  vital  powers  remain  uninjured, 
nature  will  find  the  means  of  reparation.  Distance  has  the  same 
effect  on  the  mind  as  on  the  eye,  and  while  we  glide  along  the 
stream  of  time,  whatever  we  leave  behind  us  is  always  lessening, 
and  that  which  we  approach  increasing  in  magnitude.  Do  not 
suffer  life  to  stagnate  ;  it  will  grow  muddy  for  want  of  motion  : 
commit  youi'self  again  to  the  current  of  the  \\firkl  ;   I'fkuali  will 


174  ENGLISH  FROSE 


vanish  by  degrees  ;  you  will  meet  in  your  way  some  other  favourite 
or  learn  to  diffuse  yourSelf  in  general  conversation." 

"  At  least,"  said  the  prince,  "  do  not  despair  before  all  remedies 
have  been  tried  :  the  inquiry  after  the  unfortunate  lady  is  still 
continued,  and  shall  be  carried  on  with  greater  diligence,  on 
condition  that  you  will  promise  to  wait  a  year  for  the  event,  with- 
out any  unalterable  resolution." 

Nekayah  thought  this  a  reasonable  demand,  and  made  the 
promise  to  her  brother,  who  had  been  advised  by  Imlac  to  require 
it.  Imlac  had,  indeed,  no  great  hope  of  regaining  Pekuah,  but  he 
supposed,  that  if  he  could  secure  the  interval  of  a  year,  the 
princess  would  be  then  in  no  danger  of  a  cloister. 

Nekayah,  seeing  that  nothing  was  omitted  for  the  recovery  of 
her  favourite,  and  having,  by  her  promise,  set  her  intention  of 
retirement  at  a  distance,  began  imperceptibly  to  return  to  common 
cares  and  common  pleasures.  She  rejoiced  without  her  own 
consent  at  the  suspension  of  her  sorrows,  and  sometimes  caught 
herself  with  indignation  in  the  act  of  turning  away  her  mind  from 
the  rememlDrance  of  her  whom  yet  she  resolved  never  to  forget. 

She  then  appointed  a  certain  hour  of  the  day  for  meditation 
on  the  merits  and  fondness  of  Pekuah,  and  for  some  weeks 
retired  constantly  at  the  time  fixed,  and  returned  with  her  eyes 
swollen  and  her  countenance  clouded.  By  degrees  she  grew  less 
scrupulous,  and  suffered  any  important  and  pressing  avocation  to 
delay  the  tribute  of  daily  tears.  She  then  yielded  to  less  occasions  ; 
sometimes  forget  what  she  was  indeed  afraid  to  remember,  and 
at  last  wholly  released  herself  from  the  duty  of  periodical  affliction. 

Her  real  love  of  Pekuah  was  yet  not  diminished.  A  thousand 
occurrences  brought  her  back  to  memory,  and  a  thousand  wants, 
which  nothing  but  the  confidence  of  friendship  can  supply,  made 
her  frequently  regretted.  She,  therefore,  solicited  Imlac  never 
to  desist  from  inquiry,  and  to  leave  no  art  of  intelligence  untried, 
that,  at  least,  she  might  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  she 
did  not  suffer  by  negligence  or  sluggishness.  "  Yet,  what,"  said 
she,  "  is  to  be  expected  from  our  pursuit  of  happiness,  when  we 
find  the  state  of  life  to  be  such,  that  happiness  itself  is  the  cause 
of  misery  1  Why  should  we  endeavour  to  attain  that,  of  which 
possession  cannot  be  secured  ?  I  shall  henceforward  fear  to  yield 
my  heart  to  excellence,  however  bright,  or  to  fondness,  however 
tender,  lest  1  should  lose  again  what  I  have  lost  in  Pekuah." 

(From  the  Same.) 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  I75 


METAPHYSICAL  POETS 

Cowley,  like  other  poets  who  have  written  with  narrow  views, 
and,  instead  of  tracing  intellectual  pleasures  in  the  minds  of  men, 
paid  their  court  to  temporary  prejudices,  has  been  at  one  time  too 
much  praised,  and  too  much  neglected  at  another. 

Wit,  like  all  other  things  subject  by  their  nature  to  the  choice 
of  man,  has  its  changes  and  fashions,  and  at  different  times  takes 
different  forms.  About  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century 
appeared  a  race  of  writers  that  may  be  termed  the  metaphysical 
poets  ;  of  whom,  in  a  criticism  on  the  works  of  Cowley,  it  is  not 
improper  to  give  some  account. 

The  metaphysical  poets  were  men  of  learning,  and  to  show 
their  learning  was  their  whole  endeavour  ;  but,  unluckily  resolving 
to  show  it  in  rhyme,  instead  of  writing  poetry  they  only  wrote 
verses,  and  very  often  such  verses  as  stood  the  trial  of  the  finger 
better  than  of  the  ear  ;  for  the  modulation  was  so  imperfect  that 
they  were  only  found  to  be  verses  by  counting  the  syllables. 

If  the  father  of  criticism  has  rightly  denominated  poetry  Tk\vi] 
/xtp;TtK7;,  an  imitative  art,  these  writers  will,  without  great  wrong, 
lose  their  right  to  the  name  of  poets  ;  for  they  cannot  be  said  to 
have  imitated  anything :  they  neither  copied  nature  nor  life  ; 
neither  painted  the  forms  of  matter  nor  represented  the  operations 
of  intellect. 

Those,  however,  who  deny  them  to  be  poets,  allow  them  to  Idc 
wits.  Dryden  confesses  of  himself  and  his  contemporaries  that 
they  fall  below  Donne  in  wit  ;  but  maintains  that  they  surpass  him 
in  poetry. 

If  wit  be  well  described  by  Pope,  as  being  "  that  whicli  has 
been  often  thought,  but  was  never  before  so  well  expressed,"  they 
certainly  never  attained  nor  ever  sought  it  ;  for  they  endeavoured 
to  be  singular  in  their  thoughts,  and  were  careless  of  their  diction. 
But  Pope's  account  of  wit  is  undoubtedly  erroneous  ;  he  depresses 
it  below  its  natural  dignity,  and  reduces  it  from  strength  of 
thought  to  happiness  of  language. 

If  by  a  more  noble  and  more  adequate  conception,  that  be 
considered  as  wit  which  is  at  once  natural  and  new,  that  which, 
though  not  obvious,  is,  upon  its  first  production,  acknowledged  to 
be  just  ;  if  it  be  that  which  he  that  never  found  it,  wonders  how  he 
missed  ;  to  wit  of  this  kind  the  metaphysical  poets  have  seldom 


i76  ENGLISH  PROSE 


risen.  Their  thoughts  are  often  new,  but  seldom  natural  ;  they 
are  not  obvious,  but  neither  are  they  just ;  and  the  reader,  far 
from  wondering  that  he  missed  them,  wonders  more  frequently 
by  what  perverseness  of  industry  they  were  ever  found. 

But  wit,  abstracted  from  its  effects  upon  the  hearer,  may  be 
more  rigorously  and  philosophically  considered  as  a  kind  of  dis- 
cordia  concors;  a  combination  of  dissimilar  images  or  discovery 
of  occult  resemblances  in  things  apparently  unlike.  Of  wit,  thus 
defined,  they  have  more  than  enough.  The  most  heterogeneous 
ideas  are  yoked  by  violence  together  ;  nature  and  art  are  ransacked 
for  illustrations,  comparisons,  and  allusions  ;  their  learning  in- 
structs and  their  subtlety  surprises  ;  but  the  reader  commonly 
thinks  his  improvement  dearly  bought,  and,  though  he  sometimes 
admires,  is  seldom  pleased. 

From  this  account  of  their  compositions  it  will  be  readily 
inferred  that  they  were  not  successful  in  representing  or  moving 
the  affections.  As  they  were  wholly  employed  on  something 
unexpected  and  surprising,  they  had  no  regard  to  that  uniformity 
of  sentiment  which  enables  us  to  conceive  and  to  excite  the  pains 
and  the  pleasure  of  other  minds  :  they  never  inquired  what,  on 
any  occasion,  they  should  have  said  or  done,  but  wrote  rather  as 
beholders  than  partakers  of  human  nature ;  as  beings  looking 
upon  good  and  evil,  impassive  and  at  leisure  ;  as  epicurean  deities, 
making  remarks  on  the  actions  of  men  and  the  vicissitudes  of  life, 
without  interest  and  without  emotion.  Their  courtship  was  void 
of  fondness,  and  their  lamentation  of  sorrow.  Their  wish  was 
only  to  say  what  they  hoped  had  been  never  said  before. 

Nor  was  the  sublime  more  within  their  reach  than  the  pathetic  ; 
for  they  never  attempted  that  comprehension  and  expanse  of 
thought  which  at  once  fills  the  whole  mind,  and  of  which  the  first 
effect  is  sudden  astonishment,  and  the  second  rational  admiration. 
Sublimity  is  produced  by  aggregation,  and  littleness  by  dispersion. 
Great  thoughts  are  always  general,  and  consist  in  positions  not 
limited  by  exceptions,  and  in  descriptions  not  descending  to 
minuteness.  It  is  with  great  propriety  that  subtilty,  which  in  its 
original  import  means  exility  of  particles,  is  taken  in  its  meta- 
phorical meaning  for  nicety  of  distinction.  Those  writei'S  who 
lay  on  the  watch  for  novelty,  could  have  little  hope  of  greatness  ; 
for  great  things  cannot  have  escaped  former  observation.  Their 
attempts  were  always  analytic  ;  they  broke  every  image  into  frag- 
ments, and  could  no  more  i-epresent,  by  their  slender  conceits  and 


SA  MUEL  JOHNSON  \  77 


laboured  particularities,  the  prospects  of  nature,  or  the  scenes  of 
life,  than  he  who  dissects  a  sunbeam  with  a  prism  can  exhibit  the 
wide  effulgence  of  a  summer  noon. 

What  they  wanted,  however,  of  the  sublime,  they  endeavoured 
to  supply  by  hyperbole  ;  their  amplification  had  no  limits  ;  they 
left  not  only  reason  but  fancy  behind  them,  and  produced  com- 
binations of  confused  magnificence  that  not  only  could  not  be 
credited,  but  could  not  be  imagined. 

Yet  great  labour,  directed  by  great  abilities,  is  never  wholly 
lost ;  if  they  frequently  threw  away  their  wit  upon  false  conceits, 
they  likewise  sometimes  struck  out  unexpected  truth ;  if  their 
conceits  were  far  fetched,  they  were  often  worth  the  carriage. 
To  write  on  their  plan  it  was  at  least  necessary  to  read  and  think. 
No  man  could  be  born  a  metaphysical  poet,  nor  assume  the 
dignity  of  a  writer,  by  descriptions  copied  from  descriptions,  by 
imitations  borrowed  from  imitations,  by  traditional  imagery  and 
hereditary  similes,  by  readiness  of  rhyme  and  volubility  of  syllables. 

In  perusing  the  works  of  this  race  of  authors,  the  mind  is  exer- 
cised either  by  recollection  or  inquiry  ;  either  something  already 
learned  is  to  be  retrieved,  or  something  new  is  to  be  examined. 
If  their  greatness  seldom  elevates,  their  acuteness  often  surprises  ; 
if  the  imagination  is  not  always  gratified,  at  least  the  powers  of 
reflection  and  comparison  are  employed,  and  in  the  mass  of 
materials  which  ingenious  absurdity  has  thrown  together,  genuine 
wit  and  useful  knowledge  may  be  sometimes  found  buried,  perhaps 
in  grossness  of  expression,  but  useful  to  those  who  know  their 
value,  and  such  as,  when  they  are  expanded  to  perspicuity,  and 
polished  to  elegance,  may  give  lustre  to  works  which  have  more 
propriety  though  less  copiousness  of  sentiment. 

(From  The  Lives  of  the  Poets.) 


MILTON 

Dryden  remarks  that  Milton  has  some  flats  among  his 
elevations.  This  is  only  to  say  that  all  the  parts  are  not  equal. 
In  every  work  one  part  must  be  for  the  sake  of  others  ;  a  palace 
must  have  passages,  a  poem  must  have  transitions.  It  is  no 
more  to  be  required  that  wit  should  always  be  blazing,  than  that 
the  sun  should  always  stand  at  noon.  In  a  great  work  there  is  a 
VOL.   IV  N 


178  ENGLISH  PROSE 


vicissitude  of  luminous  and  opaque  parts,  as  there  is  in  the  world  a 
succession  of  day  and  night.  Mihon,  when  he  has  expatiated  in 
the  sky,  may  be  allowed  sometimes  to  revisit  earth  ;  for  what 
other  author  ever  soared  so  high,  or  sustained  his  flight  so 
long  ? 

Milton,  l^eing  well  versed  in  the  Italian  poets,  appears  to  have 
borrowed  often  from  them  ;  and,  as  every  man  catches  some- 
thing from  his  companions,  his  desire  of  imitating  Ariosto's  levity 
has  disgraced  his  work  with  the  "  Paradise  of  Fools,"  a  fiction 
not  in  itself  ill-imagined,  but  too  ludicrous  for  its  place. 

This  play  on  words,  in  which  he  delights  too  often  ;  his 
equivocations,  which  Bentley  endeavours  to  defend  by  the  example 
of  the  ancients  ;  his  unnecessary  and  ungraceful  use  of  terms  of 
art — it  is  not  necessary  to  mention,  because  they  are  easily 
remarked  and  generally  censured  ;  and  at  last  bear  so  little 
proportion  to  the  whole  that  they  scarcely  deserve  the  attention 
of  a  critic. 

Such  are  the  faults  of  that  wonderful  performance  Paradise 
Lost,  which  he  who  can  put  in  balance  with  its  beauties  must  be 
considered  not  as  nice  but  as  dull,  as  less  to  be  censured  for 
want  of  candour,  than  pitied  for  want  of  sensibility. 

(From  the  Same.) 


RELIGIOUS  POETRY 

It  has  been  the  frequent  lamentation  of  good  men  that  verse  has 
been  too  little  applied  to  the  purposes  of  worship,  and  many 
attempts  have  been  made  to  animate  devotion  by  pious  poetry. 
That  they  have  very  seldom  attained  their  end  is  sufficiently 
known,  and  it  may  not  be  improper  to  inquire  why  they  have 
miscarried. 

Let  no  pious  ear  be  offended  if  I  advance,  in  opposition  to 
many  authorities,  that  poetical  devotion  cannot  often  please. 
The  doctrines  of  religion  may  indeed  be  defended  in  a  didactic 
poem  ;  and  he  who  has  the  happy  power  of  arguing  in  verse  will 
not  lose  it  because  his  subject  is  sacred.  A  poet  may  describe 
the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  nature,  the  flowers  of  the  spring, 
and  the  harvests  of  autumn,  the  vicissitudes  of  the  tide,  and  the 
revolutions  of  the  sky,  and  praise  the  Maker  for  his  works,   in 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  179 


lines  which  no  reader  shall  lay  aside.  The  subject  of  the 
disputation  is  not  piety,  but  the  motives  to  piety,  that  of  the 
description  is  not  God,  but  the  works  of  God. 

Contemplative  piety,  or  the  intercourse  between  God  and  the 
human  soul,  cannot  be  poetical.  Man,  admitted  to  implore  the 
mercy  of  his  Creator,  and  plead  the  merits  of  his  Redeemer,  is 
already  in  a  higher  state  than  poetry  can  confer. 

The  essence  of  poetry  is  invention,  such  invention  as,  by 
producing  something  unexpected,  surprises  and  delights.  The 
topics  of  devotion  are  few,  and  being  few  are  universally  known  ; 
but,  few  as  they  are,  they  can  be  made  no  more ;  they  can 
receive  no  grace  from  novelty  of  sentiment,  and  very  little  from 
novelty  of  expression. 

Poetry  pleases  by  exhibiting  an  idea  more  grateful  to  the 
mind  than  things  themselves  afford.  This  effect  proceeds  from 
the  display  of  those  parts  of  nature  which  attract,  and  the 
concealment  of  those  which  repel  the  imagination  ;  but  religion 
must  be  showed  as  it  is ;  suppression  and  addition  equally 
corrupt  it  ;  and  such  as  it  is,  it  is  known*  already. 

From  poetry  the  reader  justly  expects,  and  from  good  poetry 
always  obtains,  the  enlargement  of  his  comprehension  and 
elevation  of  his  fancy  ;  but  this  is  rarely  to  be  hoped  by  Christians 
from  metrical  devotion.  Whatever  is  great,  desirable,  or 
tremendous,  is  comprised  in  the  name  of  the  Supreme  Being. 
Omnipotence  cannot  be  exalted  ;  infinity  cannot  be  amplified  ; 
perfection  cannot  be  improved. 

The  employments  of  pious  meditation  are  faith,  thanksgiving, 
repentance,  and  supplication.  Faith,  invariably  uniform,  cannot 
be  invested  by  fancy  with  decorations.  Thanksgiving,  the  most 
joyful  of  all  holy  effusions,  yet  addressed  to  a  Being  without 
passions,  is  confined  to  a  few  modes,  and  is  to  be  felt  rather 
than  expressed.  Repentance,  trembling  in  the  presence  of  the 
judge,  is  not  at  leisure  for  cadences  and  epithets.  Supplication 
of  man  to  man  may  diffuse  itself  through  many  topics  of  jDer- 
suasion  ;  but  supplication  to  God  can  only  cry  for  mercy. 

Of  sentiments  purely  religious,  it  will  be  found  that  the  most 
simple  expression  is  the  most  sublime.  Poetry  loses  its  lustre 
and  its  power,  because  it  is  applied  to  the  decoration  of  some- 
thing more  excellent  than  itself.  All  that  pious  verse  can  do  is 
to  help  the  memory  and  delight  the  ear,  and  for  these  purposes 
it  may  be  very  useful,  but  it  supplies  nothing  to  the  mind.      The 


i8o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


ideas    of  Christian   theology   are  too  simple   for   eloquence,   too 

sacred  for  fiction,  and  too  majestic  for  ornament  ;  to  recommend 

them  by  tropes  and  figures,  is  to  magnify  by  a  concave  mirror 

the  sidereal  hemisphere.  ,,,         ^,      ,,  ,, 

^  (1'  rom  the  bame.) 


DRYDEN   AS   CRITIC 

Dryden  may  be  properly  considered  as  the  father  of  English 
criticism,  as  the  writer  who  first  taught  us  to  determine  upon 
principles  the  merit  of  composition.  Of  our  former  poets,  the 
greatest  dramatist  wrote  without  rules,  conducted  through  life  and 
nature  by  a  genius  that  rarely  misled,  and  rarely  deserted  him. 
Of  the  rest,  those  who  knew  the  laws  of  propriety  had  neglected 
to  leach  them. 

Two  Arts  of  English  Poetry  were  written  in  the  days  of 
Elizabeth  by  Webb  and  -Ruttenham,  from  which  something  might 
be  learned,  and  a  few  hints  had  been  given  by  Jonson  and 
Cowley  ;  but  Dryden's  Essay  on  Dramatic  Poetry  was  the  first 
regular  and  valuable  treatise  on  the  art  of  writing. 

He  who,  having  formed  his  opinions  in  the  present  age  of 
English  literature,  turns  back  to  peruse  this  dialogue,  will  not 
perhaps  find  much  increase  of  knowledge,  or  much  novelty  of 
instruction  ;  but  he  is  to  remember  that  critical  principles  were 
then  in  the  hands  of  a  few,  who  had  gathered  them  partly  from 
the  ancients,  and  partly  from  the  Italians  and  French.  The 
structure  of  dramatic  poems  was  then  not  generally  understood. 
Audiences  applauded  by  instinct  ;  and  poets  perhaps  often  pleased 
by  chance. 

A  writer  who  obtains  his  full  purpose  loses  himself  in  his  own 
lustre.  Of  an  opinion  which  is  no  longer  doubted,  the  evidence 
ceases  to  be  examined.  Of  an  art  universally  practised,  the  first 
teacher  is  forgotten.  Learning  once  made  popular  is  no  longer 
learning  ;  it  has  the  appearance  of  something  which  we  have 
bestowed  upon  ourselves,  as  the  dew  appears  to  rise  from  the 
field  which  it  refreshes. 

To  judge  rightly  of  an  author,  we  must  transport  ourselves  to 
his  time,  and  examine  what  were  the  wants  of  his  contemporaries, 
and   what  were   his  means    of  supplying  them.      That    which    is 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


easy  at  one  time  was  difficult  at  another.  Dryden  at  least 
imported  his  science,  and  gave  his  country  what  it  wanted  before  ; 
or  rather,  he  imported  only  the  materials,  and  manufactured  them 
by  his  own  skill. 

The  Dialogue  on  t/ic  Drama  was  one  of  his  first  essays  of 
criticism,  written  when  he  was  yet  a  timorous  candidate  for 
reputation,  and  therefore  laboured  with  that  diligence  which  he 
might  allow  himself  somewhat  to  remit,  when  his  name  gave 
sanction  to  his  positions,  and  his  awe  of  the  public  was  abated, 
partly  by  custom,  and  partly  by  success.  It  will  not  be  easy  to 
find,  in  all  the  opulence  of  our  language,  a  treatise  so  artfully 
variegated  with  successive  representations  of  opposite  probabilities, 
so  enlivened  with  imager)',  so  brightened  with  illustrations.  His 
portraits  of  the  English  dramatists  are  wrought  with  great  spirit 
and  diligence.  The  account  of  Shakespeare  may  stand  as  a 
perpetual  model  of  encomiastic  criticism  ;  exact  without  minute- 
ness, and  lofty  without  exaggeration.  The  praise  lavished  by 
Longinus,  on  the  attestation  of  the  heroes  of  Marathon  by 
Demosthenes,  fades  away  before  it.  In  a  few  lines  is  exhibited 
a  character,  so  extensive  in  its  comprehension,  and  so  curious  in 
its  limitations,  that  nothing  can  be  added,  diminished,  or 
reformed  ;  nor  can  the  editors  and  admirers  of  Shakespeare,  in 
all  their  emulation  of  reverence,  boast  of  much  more  than  of 
having  diffused  and  paraphrased  this  epitome  of  excellence,  of 
having  changed  Dryden's  gold  for  baser  metal  of  lower  value, 
though  of  greater  bulk. 

In  this,  and  in  all  his  other  essays  on  the  same  subject,  the 
criticism  of  Dryden  is  the  criticism  of  a  poet  ;  not  a  dull 
collection  of  theorems,  nor  a  rude  detection  of  faults,  which 
perhaps  the  censor  was  not  able  to  have  committed  ;  but  a  gay 
and  vigorous  dissertation,  where  delight  is  mingled  with  instruc- 
tion, and  where  the  author  proves  his  right  of  judgment  by 
his  power  of  performance. 

The  different  manner  and  effect  with  which  critical  knowledge 
may  be  conveyed,  was  perhaps  never  more  clearly  exemplified 
than  in  the  performances  of  Rymer  and  Dryden.  It  was  said  of 
a  dispute  between  two  mathematicians,  "  malim  cum  Scaligero 
errare,  quam  cum  Clavio  recte  sapere,"  that  "  it  was  more  eligible 
to  go  wrong  with  one  than  right  with  the  other."  A  tendency  of 
the  same  kind  every  mind  must  feel  at  the  perusal  of  Dryden's 
prefaces  and  Rymer's  discourses.    With  Dryden  we  are  wandering 


1 82  ENGLISH  PROSE 


in  quest  of  truth,  whom  we  find,  if  we  find  her  at  all,  drest  in 
the  graces  of  elegance  ;  and  if  we  miss  her,  the  labour  of  the 
pursuit  rewards  itself ;  we  are  led  only  through  fragrance  and 
flowers.  Rymer,  without  taking  a  nearer,  takes  a  rougher  way  ; 
every  step  is  to  be  made  through  thorns  and  brambles  ;  and  truth, 
if  we  meet  her,  appears  repulsive  by  her  mien,  and  ungraceful 
by  her  habit.  Dryden's  criticism  has  the  majesty  of  a  queen  ; 
Rymer's  has  the  ferocity  of  a  tyrant. 


(From  the  Same.) 


A  DIGRESSION 


Of  Gilbert  Walmsley,  thus  presented  to  my  mind,  let  me 
indulge  myself  in  the  remembrance.  I  knew  him  very  early  ;  he 
was  one  of  the  first  friends  that  literature  procured  me,  and  I 
hope  that  at  least  my  gratitude  made  me  worthy  of  his  notice. 

He  was  of  an  advanced  age,  and  I  was  only  yet  a  boy  ;  yet 
he  never  received  my  notions  with  contempt.  He  was  a  Whig, 
with  all  the  virulence  and  malevolence  of  his  party  ;  yet  difference 
of  opinion  did  not  keep  us  apart.  I  honoured  him,  and  he 
endured  me. 

He  had  mingled  with  the  gay  world  without  exemption  from 
its  vice  or  its  follies,  but  had  never  neglected  the  cultivation  of 
his  mind  ;  his  belief  of  revelation  was  unshaken  ;  his  learning 
preserved  his  principles  ;  he  grew  first  regular,  and  then  pious. 

His  studies  had  been  so  various  that  I  am  not  able  to  name  a 
man  of  equal  knowledge.  His  acquaintance  with  books  was  great ; 
and  what  he  did  not  immediately  know  he  could  at  least  tell 
where  to  find.  Such  was  his  amplitude  of  learning,  and  such  his 
copiousness  of  communication,  that  it  may  be  doubted  whether  a 
day  now  passes  in  which  I  have  not  some  advantage  from  his 
friendship. 

At  this  man's  table  I  enjoyed  many  cheerful  and  instructive 
hours,  with  companions  such  as  are  not  often  found — with  one  who 
has  lengthened,  and  one  who  has  gladdened  life  ;  with  Dr.  James, 
whose  skill  in  physic  will  be  long  remembered,  and  with  David 
Garrick,  whom  I  hoped  to  have  gratified  with  this  character  of 
our  common  friend  ;  but  what  are  the  hopes  of  man  !  I  am  dis- 
appointed by  that  stroke  of  death,  which  has  eclipsed  the  gaiety 
of  nations,  and  impoverished  the  public  stock  of  harmless  pleasure. 

(P'rom  the  Same.) 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  183 


A  TASK  COMPLETED 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which  its  own  nature  for- 
bids to  be  immortal,  I  have  devoted  this  book,  the  labour  of  years, 
to  the  honour  of  my  country,  that  we  may  no  longer  yield  the 
palm  of  philology,  without  a  contest,  to  the  nations  of  the  con- 
tinent. The  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors  : 
whether  I  shall  add  anything  by  my  own  writings  to  the  reputa- 
tion of  English  literature,  must  be  left  to  time  :  much  of  my  life 
has  been  lost  under  the  pressure  of  disease  ;  much  has  been 
trifled  away,  and  much  has  always  been  spent  in  provision  for  the 
day  that  was  passing  over  me ;  but  I  shall  not  think  my  employ- 
ment useless  or  ignoble,  if  by  my  assistance  foreign  nations  and 
distant  ages  gain  access  to  the  propagators  of  knowledge,  and 
understand  the  teachers  of  truth  ;  if  my  labours  afford  light  to  the 
repositories  of  science,  and  add  celebrity  to  Bacon,  to  Hooker,  to 
Milton,  and  to  Boyle. 

When  I  am  animated  by  this  wish,  I  look  with  pleasure  on 
my  book,  however  defective,  and  deliver  it  to  the  world  with  the 
spirit  of  a  man  that  has  endeavoured  well.  That  it  will  immedi- 
ately become  popular  I  have  not  promised  to  myself:  a  few  wild 
blunders  and  risible  absurdities,  from  which  no  work  of  such 
multiplicity  was  ever  free,  may  for  a  time  furnish  folly  with 
laughter,  and  harden  ignorance  in  contempt ;  but  useful  diligence 
will  at  last  prevail,  and  there  never  can  be  wanting  some  who  dis- 
tinguish desert,  who  will  consider  that  no  dictionary  of  a  living 
tongue  ever  can  be  perfect,  since  while  it  is  hastening  to  publica- 
tion some  words  are  budding,  some  falling  away  ;  that  a  whole 
life  cannot  be  spent  upon  syntax  and  etymology,  and  that  even  a 
whole  life  would  not  be  sufficient  ;  that  he,  whose  design  includes 
whatever  language  can  express,  must  often  speak  of  what  he  does 
not  understand  ;  that  a  writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried  by  eager- 
ness to  the  end,  and  sometimes  faint  with  weariness  under  a  task 
which  Scaliger  compares  to  the  labours  of  the  anvil  and  the  mine  ; 
that  what  is  obvious  is  not  always  known,  and  what  is  known  is 
not  always  present ;  that  sudden  fits  of  inadvertency  will  surprise 
vigilance,  shght  avocations  will  seduce  attention,  and  casual 
eclipses  of  the  mind  will  darken  learning,  and  that  the  writer  shall 
often  in  vain  trace  liis  memory  at  the  moment  of  need  for  that 


l84  ENGLISH  PROSE 


which  yesterday  he  knew  with  intuitive  readiness,  and  which  will 
come  uncalled  into  his  thoughts  to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that  much  is  omitted,  let 
it  not  be  forgotten  that  much  likewise  is  performed  ;  and  though 
no  book  was  ever  spared  out  of  tenderness  to  the  author,  and  the 
world  is  little  solicitous  to  know  whence  proceeded  the  faults  of 
that  which  it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curiosity  to  inform  it 
that  the  English  Dictiotiary  was  written  with  little  assistance  of 
the  learned,  and  without  any  patronage  of  the  great ;  not  in  the 
soft  obscurities  of  retirement  or  under  the  shelter  of  academic 
bowers,  but  amidst  inconvenience  and  distraction,  in  sickness  and 
in  sorrow.  It  may  repress  the  triumph  of  malignant  criticism 
to  observe  that  if  our  language  is  not  here  fully  displayed,  I  have 
only  failed  in  an  attempt  no  human  powers  have  hitherto  completed. 
If  the  lexicons  of  ancient  tongues,  now  immutably  fixed,  and  com- 
prised in  a  few  volumes,  be  yet,  after  the  toil  of  successive  ages, 
inadequate  and  delusive ;  if  the  aggregated  knowledge  and  co- 
operating diligence  of  the  Italian  academicians  did  not  secure  them 
from  the  censure  of  Beni ;  if  the  embodied  critics  of  France,  when 
fifty  years  had  been  spent  upon  their  work,  were  obliged  to  change 
its  economy  and  give  their  second  edition  another  form,  I  may 
surely  be  contented  without  the  praise  of  perfection,  which,  if  I 
could  obtain  in  this  gloom  of  solitude,  what  would  it  avail  me  ? 
I  have  protracted  my  work  till  most  of  those  whom  I  wished  to 
please  have  sunk  into  the  grave,  and  success  and  miscarriage  are 
empty  sounds  :  I  therefore  dismiss  it  with  frigid  tranquillity,  having 
little  to  fear  or  hope  from  censure  or  from  praise. 


(From  Preface  to  Diciiofiary.) 


LETTER  TO   LORD   CHESTERFIELD 

Jtk  February  1755. 

My  Lord — I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  proprietor  of 
The  World,  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recom- 
mended to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  lordship.  To  be  so 
distinguished  is  an  honour,  which,  being  veiy  little  accustomed 
to  favours  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in 
what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,    1   first  visited  your 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  185 


lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the 
enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that 
I  might  boast  myself  Le  iminqiicur  du  vainqiieur  de  la  icrrej — 
that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  contend- 
ing ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged,  that  neither 
pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I  had 
once  addressed  your  Lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the 
art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess. 
I  had  done  all  that  I  could  ;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have 
his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  past,  since  I  waited  in  your 
outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door  ;  during  which 
time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties,  of 
which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to 
the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favour.  Such  treatment  I  did 
not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on 
a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached 
ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours,  had  it  been  early,  had  been 
kind ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot 
enjoy  it :  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it  ;  till  I  am  known, 
and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to 
confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be 
unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a 
patron,  which  providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation 
to  any  favourer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though 
I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less  ;  for  I  have 
been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I  once 
boasted  myself  with  so  much  exultation. 
My  Lord, 
Your  lordship's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 


DAVID    HUME 


[David  Hume  was  born  in  1711,  and  died  in  1776.  He  wrote  many  essays 
upon  the  topics  which  philosophy,  morals,  and  politics  supply  ;  and  was, 
besides,  the  author  of  a  History  of  England.  His  most  striking  and  con- 
siderable performance  is,  perhaps,  the  Treatise  of  Hainan  Nature.^ 

Hume's  pre-eminence  in  the  field  of  speculation  has  somewhat 
thrown  into  the  shade  his  merits  as  a  man  of  letters  ;  and,  in 
truth,  he  has  been  surpassed  by  none  of  his  countrymen  in  the 
acuteness,  the  penetration,  and  the  intrepidity  with  which  he 
treated  the  problems  of  philosophy.  While  his  opponents  must 
concede  that  he  possessed  the  courage  of  his  opinions  in  no 
ordinary  degree,  and  that  he  never  shrank  from  following  whither 
the  argument  seemed  to  lead,  but,  on  the  contrary,  applied  his 
canons  with  a  consistency  as  admirable  as  it  was  singular,  his 
supporters  would  find  it  hard  to  point  to  any  subsequent  writer 
who  has  presented  the  case  for  the  philosophy  of  Experience  with 
greater — or  even  with  equal — thoroughness  and  cogency.  The 
discoveries  of  modern  science  have  supplied  the  empirical  philo- 
sopher with  no  weapon  which  may  not  be  found  in  Hume's  well- 
stocked  armoury  ;  while,  as  a  political  enquirer,  he  attained  a 
position  second  only  to  that  of  his  close  friend,  Adam  Smith. 

A  studied  and  artful — sometimes  a  strained^ — simplicity  is 
the  chief  characteristic  of  his  style.  He  never  attempts  the 
majestic  periods  of  Johnson  or  Gibbon  ;  while  a  certain  air  of 
stiffness  and  precision  effectually  prevents  his  being  spirited  on 
the  one  hand,  or  colloquial  on  the  other.  His  prose  flows  on 
with  a  steady  and  even  motion,  which  no  obstacle  ever  retards, 
nor  any  passion  ever  agitates.  In  the  whole  of  his  writings  there 
is  scarce  one  of  those  outbursts  of  emotion  which  at  times  animate 
the  pages  even  of  the  coolest  metaphysicians.  Scorn  there 
is  in  abundance  ;  but  it  is  the  amused  and  pitying  contempt 
of  a  superior  being  who  watches  from  afar  the  frailties  and  vices 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


from  which  himself  is  consciously  exempt.  Enthusiasm,  or 
righteous  indignation,  was  a  total  stranger  to  Hume's  cast  of 
mind.  But  his  sneer  and  his  sarcasm,  though  by  far  less  elaborate 
and  less  diligently  sustained,  are  hardly  less  effective  and  pointed 
than  Gibbon's.  As  a  historian,  he  makes  little  pretence  to 
absolute  impartiality,  but  his  opinions  are  insinuated  with  the 
utmost  delicacy  and  address  ;  and  at  least  he  never  wilfully 
falsifies  his  facts.  He  appeals  little  to  the  modern  taste  in  the 
capacity  either  of  the  pedant  or  the  journalist  ;  yet  his  judgment 
of  character  is  at  once  cautious  and  discriminating,  and  he  inter- 
jects many  shrewd  and  dry  remarks.  Such,  for  example,  is  the 
observation  that  to  inspire  the  Puritans  with  a  better  humour  was, 
both  for  their  own  sake  and  that  of  the  public,  a  laudable  inten- 
tion of  the  Court  ;  "  but  whether  pillories,  fines,  and  prisons  were 
proper  expedients  for  that  purpose  may  admit  of  some  question  " ; 
or  the  description  of  the  Solemn  League  and  Covenant  as  "  com- 
posed of  many  invectives,  fitted  to  inflame  the  minds  of  men 
against  their  fellow-creatures,  whom  Heaven  has  enjoined  them 
to  cherish  and  to  love." 

Hume's  vocabulary  is  copious  and  well  chosen,  but  never 
picturesque.  He  compiled  for  his  own  guidance  a  list  of  Scotticisms; 
and  it  argues  a  nice  literary  sense  and  an  attentive  study  of  the 
best  models  that,  having  in  him  a  strong  dash  of  the  provincial, 
he  should  have  not  only  sought  but  contrived  to  avoid  these  not 
unnatural  solecisms.  Many  men  have  written  English  prose 
with  greater  ease,  fluency,  and  freedom,  and  many  with  greater 
dignity  and  effect  ;  but  few  with  more  accuracy,  purity,  and 
elegance  of  diction  than  David  Hume. 

J.  H.  Millar. 


A    DEFENCE    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

This  deficiency  in  our  ideas  is  not,  indeed,  perceived  in  common 
life,  nor  are  we  sensible,  that  in  the  most  usual  conjunctions  of 
cause  and  effect  we  are  as  ignorant  of  the  ultimate  principle, 
which  binds  them  together,  as  in  the  most  unusual  and  extra- 
ordinary. But  this  proceeds  merely  from  an  illusion  of 
imagination  ;  and  the  cjuestion  is,  how  far  we  ought  to  yield  to 
these  illusions.  This  question  is  very  difficult,  and  reduces  us  to 
a  very  dangerous  dilemma,  whichever  way  we  answer  it.  For  if 
we  assent  to  eveiy  trivial  suggestion  of  the  fancy  ;  besides  that 
these  suggestions  are  often  contrary  to  each  other  ;  they  lead  us 
into,  such  errors,  absurdities,  and  obscurities,  that  we  must  at  last 
become  ashamed  of  our  credulity.  Nothing  is  more  dangerous 
to  reason  than  the  flights  of  the  imagination,  and  nothing  has 
been  the  occasion  of  more  mistakes  among  philosophers.  Men 
of  bright  fancies  may  in  this  respect  be  compared  to  those  angels, 
whom  the  Scripture  represents  as  covering  their  eyes  with  their 
wings.  This  has  already  appeared  in  so  many  instances  that 
we  may  spare  ourselves  the  trouble  of  enlarging  upon  it  any 
further. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  if  the  consideration  of  these  instances 
makes  us  take  a  resolution  to  reject  all  the  trivial  suggestions  of 
the  fancy,  and  adhere  to  the  understanding,  that  is,  to  the  general 
and  more  established  properties  of  the  imagination  ;  even  this 
resolution,  if  steadily  executed,  would  be  dangerous  and  attended 
with  the  most  fatal  consecjuences.  For  I  have  already  shown, 
that  the  understanding,  when  it  acts  alone,  and -according  to  its 
most  general  principles,  entirely  subverts  itself,  and  leaves  not  the 
lowest  degree  of  evidence  in  any  proposition,  either  in  philosophy 
or  common  life.  We  save  ourselves  from  this  total  scepticism 
only  by  means  of  that  singular  and  seemingly  trivial  property  of 
the  fancy,  by  which  we  enter  with  difficulty  into  remote  views  of 


I90  ENGLISH  rROSE 


things,  and  we  are  not  able  to  accompany  them  with  so  sensible 
an  impression,  as  we  do  those,  which  are  more  easy  and  natural. 
Shall  we,  then,  establish  it  for  a  general  maxim,  that  no  refined 
or  elaborate  reasoning  is  ever  to  be  received  ?  Consider  well  the 
consequences  of  such  a  principle.  By  this  means  you  cut  off 
entirely  all  science  and  philosophy.  You  proceed  upon  one 
singular  cjuality  of  the  imagination,  and  by  a  parity  of  reason 
must  embrace  all  of  them.  And  you  expressly  contradict  your- 
self; since  this  maxim  must  be  built  on  the  preceding  reasoning, 
which  will  be  allowed  to  be  sufficiently  refined  and  metaphysical. 
What  party,  then,  shall  we  choose  among  these  difficulties  ? 
if  we  embrace  this  principle,  and  condemn  all  refined  reasoning, 
we  run  into  the  most  manifest  absurdities.  If  we  reject  it  in 
favour  of  these  reasonings,  we  subvert  entirely  the  human 
understanding.  We  have  therefore  no  choice  left  but  betwixt  a 
false  reason  and  none  at  all.  For  my  part,  I  know  not  what 
ought  to  be  done  in  the  present  case.  I  can  only  observe  what  is 
commonly  done  ;  which  is,  that  this  difficulty  is  seldom  or  never 
thought  of;  and  even  where  it  has  once  been  present  to  the 
mind  is  quickly  forgot,  and  leaves  but  a  small  impression  behind 
it.  Very  refined  reflections  have  little  or  no  influence  upon  us  : 
and  yet  we  do  not  and  cannot  establish  it  for  a  rule,  that  they 
ought  not  to  have  any  influence,  which  implies  a  manifest 
contradiction. 

But  what  have  I  here  said,  that  reflections,  very  refined  and 
metaphysical,  have  little  or  no  influence  upon  us  ?  This 
opinion  I  can  scarce  forbear  retracting,  and  condemning 
from  my  present  feeling  and  experience.  The  intense  view  of 
these  manifold  contradictions  and  imperfections  in  human  reason 
has  so  wrought  upon  me  and  heated  my  brain  that  I  am  ready  to 
reject  all  belief  and  reasoning,  and  can  look  upon  no  opinion 
even  as  more  probable  or  likely  than  another.  Where  am  I,  or 
what  ?  From  what  causes  do  I  derive  my  existence,  and  to 
what  condition  shall  I  return  ?  Whose  favour  shall  I  court,  and 
whose  anger  must  I  dread  ?  What  beings  surround  me  ?  and  on 
whom  have  I  any  influence,  or  who  have  any  influence  upon  me  1 
I  am  confounded  with  all  these  questions,  and  begin  to  fancy 
myself  in  the  most  deplorable  condition  imaginable,  environed 
with  the  deepest  darkness,  and  utterly  deprived  of  the  use  of 
every  member  and  faculty. 

Most  fortunately  it  happens,  that  since  reason   is  incapable  of 


DAVID  HUME  191 


dispelling  these  clouds,  Nature  herself  suffices  to  that  purpose, 
and  cures  me  of  this  philosophical  melancholy  and  delirium, 
either  by  relaxing  this  bent  of  the  mind,  or  by  some  avocation, 
and  lively  impression  of  my  senses  which  obliterate  all  these 
chimeras.  I  dine,  I  play  a  game  of  backgammon,  I  converse, 
and  am  merry  with  my  friends  ;  and  when  after  three  or  four 
hours'  amusement  I  would  return  to  these  speculations,  they 
appear  so  cold,  and  strained,  and  ridiculous,  that  I  cannot  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  enter  into  them  any  further. 

Here  then  I  find  myself  absolutely  and  necessarily  determined 
to  live  and  talk  and  act  like  other  people  in  the  common  affairs 
of  life.  But,  notwithstanding  that  my  natural  propensity,  and  the 
course  of  my  animal  spirits  and  passions  reduce  me  to  this 
indolent  belief  in  the  general  maxims  of  the  world,  I  still  feel 
such  remains  of  my  former  disposition,  that  I  am  ready  to  throw 
all  my  books  and  papers  into  the  fire,  and  resolve  never  more  to 
renounce  the  pleasures  of  life  for  the  sake  of  reasoning  and 
philosophy.  For  those  are  my  sentiments  in  that  splenetic 
humour  which  governs  me  at  present.  I  may,  nay  I  must  yield 
to  the  current  of  nature,  in  submitting  to  my  senses  and  under- 
standing ;  and  in  this  blind  submission  I  show  most  perfectly  my 
sceptical  disposition  and  principles.  But  does  it  follow  that  I 
must  strive  against  the  current  of  nature  which  leads  me  to 
indolence  and  pleasure;  that  I  must  seclude  myself,  in  some 
measure,  from  the  commerce  and  society  of  men,  which  is  so 
agreeable  ;  and  that  I  must  torture  my  brain  with  subtleties  and 
sophistries,  at  the  very  time  that  I  cannot  satisfy  myself 
concerning  the  reasonableness  of  so  painful  an  application,  nor 
have  any  tolerable  prospect  of  arriving  by  its  means  at  truth  and 
certainty. 

Under  what  obligation  do  I  lie  of  making  such  an  abuse  of 
time  ?  And  to  what  end  can  it  sei-ve  either  for  the  service  of 
mankind,  or  for  my  own  private  interest  1  No  !  If  I  must  be  a 
fool,  as  all  those  who  reason  or  believe  anything  certainly  are, 
my  follies  shall  at  least  be  natural  and  agreeable.  Where  I  strive 
against  my  inclination  I  shall  have  a  good  reason  for  my 
resistance,  and  will  no  more  be  led  a-wandering  into  such  dreary 
solitudes,  and  rough  passages,  as  I  have  hitherto  met  with. 

These  are  my  sentiments  of  my  spleen  and  indolence  ;  and 
indeed  I  must  confess,  that  philosophy  has  nothing  to  oppose  to 
them  and  expects  a  victory  more  from  the  returns  of  a  serious 


192  ENGLISH  PROSE 


good-humoured  disposition,  than  from  the  force  of  reason  and 
conviction.  In  all  the  incidents  of  life  we  ought  still  to  preserve 
our  scepticism.  If  we  believe  that  fire  warms  or  water  refreshes, 
'tis  only  because  it  costs  us  too  much  pains  to  think  otherwise. 
Nay,  if  we  are  philosophers,  it  ought  only  to  be  upon  sceptical 
principles,  and  from  an  inclination  which  we  feel  to  the  employing 
ourselves  after  the  manner.  Where  reason  is  lively  and  mixes 
itself  with  some  propensity,  it  ought  to  be  assented  to.  Where  it 
does  not,  it  never  can  have  any  title  to  operate  upon  us. 

At  the  time,  therefore,  that  I  am  tired  with  amusement  and 
company,  and  have  indulged  a  reverie  in  my  chamber,  or  in  a 
solitary  walk  by  a  river  side,  I  feel  my  mind  all  collected  within 
itself,  and  am  naturally  inclined  to  carry  my  view  into  all  those 
subjects  about  which  I  have  met  with  so  many  disputes  in 
the  course  of  my  reading  and  conversation.  I  cannot  forbear 
having  a  curiosity  to  be  acquainted  with  the  principles  of  moral 
good  and  evil,  the  nature  and  foundation  of  government,  and  the 
cause  of  those  several  passions  and  inclinations,  which  actuate  and 
govern  me.  I  am  uneasy  to  think  I  approve  of  one  object,  and 
disapprove  of  another ;  call  one  thing  beautiful,  and  another 
deformed  ;  decide  concerning  truth  and  falsehood,  reason  and 
folly,  without  knowing  upon  what  principles  I  proceed.  I  am 
concerned  for  the  condition  of  the  learned  world,  which  lies  under 
such  a  deplorable  ignorance  in  all  these  particulars.  I  feel  an 
ambition  to  arise  in  me  of  contributing  to  the  instruction  of  man- 
kind, and  of  acquiring  a  name  by  my  inventions  and  discoveries. 
These  sentiments  spring  up  naturally  in  my  present  disposition  ; 
and  should  I  endeavour  to  banish  them,  by  attaching  myself  to 
any  other  business  or  diversion,  I  feel  I  should  be  a  loser  in  point 
of  pleasure  ;  and  this  is  the  origin  of  my  philosophy. 

But  even  suppose  this  curiosity  and  ambition  should  not  trans- 
port me  into  speculations  without  the  sphere  of  common  life,  it 
would  necessarily  happen,  that  from  my  very  weakness  I  must  l^e 
led  into  such  inquiries.  'Tis  certain,  that  superstition  is  much 
more  bold  in  its  systems  and  hypotheses  than  philosophy  ;  and 
while  the  latter  contents  itself  with  assigning  new  causes  and 
principles  to  the  phenomena,  which  appear  in  the  visible  world, 
the  former  opens  a  world  of  its  own,  and  presents  us  with  scenes, 
and  beings,  and  objects,  which  are  altogether  new.  Since  there- 
fore 'tis  almost  impossible  for  the  mind  of  man  to  rest,  like  those 
of  beasts,  in  that  narrow  circle  of  objects,  which  are  the  subject 


DAVID  HUME  193 


of  daily  conversation  and  action,  we  ought  only  to  deliberate  con- 
cerning the  choice  of  our  guide,  and  ought  to  prefer  that  which  is 
safest  and  most  agreeable.  And  in  this  respect  I  make  bold  to 
recommend  philosophy,  and  shall  not  scruple  to  give  it  the  pre- 
ference to  superstition  of  every  kind  or  denomination.  For  as 
superstition  arises  naturally  and  easily  from  the  popular  opinions 
of  mankind,  it  seizes  more  strongly  on  the  mind,  and  is  often  able 
to  disturb  us  in  the  conduct  of  our  lives  and  actions.  Philosophy 
on  the  contrary,  if  just,  can  present  us  only  with  mild  and  moder- 
ate sentiments  ;  and  if  false  and  extravagant,  its  opinions  are 
merely  the  objects  of  a  cold  and  general  speculation,  and  seldom 
go  so  far  as  to  interrupt  the  course  of  our  natural  propensities. 
The  Cynics  are  an  extraordinary  instance  of  philosophers,  who 
from  reasonings  purely  philosophical  ran  into  as  great  extravag- 
ancies of  conduct  as  any  monk  or  dervish  that  was  ever  in  the 
world.  Generally  speaking,  the  errors  in  religion  are  dangerous  ; 
those  in  philosophy  only  ridiculous. 

I  am  sensible,  that  these  two  cases  of  the  strength  and  weak- 
ness of  the  mind  will  not  comprehend  all  mankind,  and  that  there 
are  in  England,  in  particular,  many  honest  gentlemen,  who  being 
always  employed  in  our  domestic  affairs,  or  amusing  themselves 
in  common  recreations,  have  carried  their  thoughts  very  little 
beyond  those  objects,  which  are  every  day  exposed  to  their  senses. 
And  indeed,  of  such  as  these  I  pretend  not  to  make  philosophers, 
nor  do  I  expect  them  either  to  be  associates  in  these  researches 
or  auditors  of  these  discoveries.  They  do  well  to  keep  themselves 
in  their  present  situation  ;  and  instead  of  refining  them  into  philo- 
sophers, I  wish  we  could  communicate  to  our  founders  of  systems 
a  share  of  this  gross  earthy  mixture,  as  an  ingredient,  which  they 
commonly  stand  much  in  need  of,  and  which  would  serve  to 
temper  those  fiery  particles,  of  which  they  are  composed.  While 
a  warm  imagination  is  allowed  to  enter  into  philosophy,  and 
hypotheses  embraced  merely  for  being  specious  and  agreeable,  we 
can  never  have  any  steady  principles,  nor  any  sentiments,  which 
will  suit  with  common  practice  and  experience.  But  were  these 
hypotheses  once  removed,  we  might  hope  to  establish  a  system 
or  set  of  opinions,  which,  if  not  true  (for  that,  perhaps,  is  too 
much  to  be  hoped  for),  might  at  least  be  satisfactory  to  the  human 
mind,  and  might  stand  the  test  of  the  most  critical  examination. 
Nor  should  we  despair  of  attaining  this  end,  because  of  the  many 
chimerical  systems,  which  have  successively  arisen  and  decayed 

VOL.  IV  O 


194  ENGLISH  PROSE 


away  among  men,  would  we  consider  the  shortness  of  that  period 
wherein  these  questions  have  been  the  subjects  of  inquiry  and 
reasoning.  Two  thousand  years  with  such  long  interruptions,  and 
under  such  mighty  discouragements  are  a  small  space  of  time  to 
give  any  tolerable  perfection  to  the  sciences  ;  and  perhaps  we  are 
still  in  too  early  an  age  of  the  world  to  discover  any  principles, 
which  will  bear  the  examination  of  the  latest  posterity.  For  my 
part,  my  only  hope  is  that  I  may  contribute  a  little  to  the  advance- 
ment of  knowledge,  by  giving  in  some  particulars  a  different  turn 
to  the  speculations  of  philosophers,  and  pointing  out  to  them  more 
distinctly  those  subjects,  where  alone  they  can  expect  assurance 
and  con\iction.  Human  nature  is  the  only  science  of  man  ;  and 
yet  has  been  hitherto  the  most  neglected.  'Twill  be  sufficient  for 
me,  if  I  can  bring  it  a  little  more  into  fashion  ;  and  the  hope  of 
this  serves  to  compose  my  temper  from  that  spleen,  and  invigor- 
ate it  from  that  indolence,  which  sometimes  prevail  upon  me.  If 
the  reader  finds  himself  in  the  same  easy  disposition,  let  him  follow 
me  in  my  future  speculations.  If  not,  let  him  follow  his  inclina- 
tion, and  wait  the  returns  of  application  and  good  humour.  The 
conduct  of  a  man  who  studies  philosophy  in  this  careless  manner, 
is  more  truly  sceptical  than  that  of  one  who,  feeling  in  himself  an 
inclination  to  it,  is  yet  so  overwhelmed  with  doubts  and  scruples, 
as  totally  to  reject  it.  A  true  sceptic  will  be  diffident  of  his 
philosophical  doubts,  as  well  as  of  his  philosophical  conviction  ; 
and  will  never  refuse  any  innocent  satisfaction,  which  offers  itself, 
upon  account  of  either  of  them. 

Nor  is  it  only  proper  we  should  in  general  indulge  our  inclina- 
tion in  the  most  elaborate  philosophical  researches,  notwithstand- 
ing our  sceptical  principles,  but  also  that  we  should  yield  to  that 
propensity,  which  inclines  us  to  be  positive  and  certain  in  particu- 
lar points,  according  to  the  light  in  which  we  survey  them  in  any 
particular  instant.  'Tis  easier  to  forbear  all  examination  and 
inquiry,  than  to  check  ourselves  in  so  natural  a  propensity,  and 
guard  against  that  assurance,  which  always  arises  from  an  exact 
and  full  survey  of  an  object.  On  such  an  occasion  we  are  ajDt 
not  only  to  forget  our  scepticism,  but  even  our  modesty  too  ;  and 
make  use  of  such  terms  as  these,  'tis  evident,  'tis  certain,  'tis 
undeniable  :  which  a  due  deference  to  the  public  ought,  perhaps, 
to  prevent.  I  may  have  fallen  into  this  fault  after  the  example  of 
others  ;  but  I  here  enter  a  cai'eat  against  any  objections,  which 
may  be  offered  on   that  head,  and  declare  that  such  expressions 


DAVID  HUME  195 


were  extorted  from  me  by  the  present  view  of  the  object,  and 
imply  no  dogmatical  spirit,  nor  conceited  idea  of  my  own  judg- 
ment, which  are  sentiments  that  I  am  sensible  can  become  no- 
body, and  a  sceptic  still  less  than  any  other. 

(From  A  Trea/isc  of  Human  Nature.) 


KING    AND    TARLIAMENT 

In  the  summer  of  1643,  while  the  negotiations  were  carried  on 
with  Scotland,  the  parliament  had  summoned  an  assembly  at 
Westminster,  consisting  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-one  divines 
and  thirty  laymen,  celebrated  in  their  party  for  piety  and  learning. 
By  their  advice,  alterations  were  made  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles, 
or  in  the  metaphysical  doctrines  of  the  Church  ;  and  what  was  of 
greater  importance,  the  liturgy  was  entirely  abolished,  and  in  its 
stead  a  new  Directory  for  worship  was  established  ;  by  which, 
suitably  to  the  spirit  of  the  Puritans,  the  utmost  liberty  both  in 
praying  and  preaching  was  indulged  to  the  public  teachers.  By 
the  Solemn  League  and  Covenant,  Episcopacy  was  abjured,  as 
destructive  of  all  true  piety  ;  and  a  national  engagement,  attended 
with  every  circumstance  that  could  render  a  promise  sacred  and 
obligatory,  was  entered  into  with  the  Scots,  never  to  suffer  its 
readmission.  All  these  measures  showed  little  spirit  of  accommo- 
dation in  the  parliament  ;  and  the  king's  commissioners  were  not 
surprised  to  find  the  establishment  of  Presbytery  and  the  Directory 
positively  demanded,  together  with  the  subscription  of  the 
Covenant,  both  by  the  king  and  kingdom. 

Had  Charles  been  of  a  disposition  to  neglect  all  theological 
controversy,  he  yet  had  been  obliged,  in  good  policy,  to  adhere 
to  episcopal  jurisdiction;  not  only  because  it  was  favourable  to 
monarchy,  but  because  all  his  adherents  were  passionately  de- 
voted to  it  ;  and  to  abandon  them,  in  what  they  regarded  as  so 
important  an  article,  was  forever  to  relinquish  their  friendship 
and  assistance.  But  Charles  had  never  attained  such  enlarged 
principles.  He  deemed  bishops  essential  to  the  very  being  of  a 
Christian  church  ;  and  he  thought  himself  bound,  by  more  sacred 
ties  than  those  of  policy,  or  even  of  honour,  to  the  support  of 
that  order.  His  concessions,  therefore,  on  this  head,  he  judged 
sufficient,  when  he  agreed  that  an  indulgence  should  be  given  to 


196  ENGLISH  PROSE 


tender  consciences  with  regard  to  ceremonies  ;  that  the  bishops 
should  exercise  no  act  of  jurisdiction  or  ordination  without  the 
consent  and  counsel  of  such  presbyters  as  should  be  chosen  by 
the  clergy  of  each  diocese  ;  that  they  should  reside  constantly  in 
their  diocese,  and  be  bound  to  preach  every  Sunday ;  that 
pluralities  be  abolished,  that  abuses  in  ecclesiastical  courts  be 
redressed,  and  that  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  be  levied  on  the 
bishops'  estates  and  the  chapter  lands  for  payment  of  debts 
contracted  by  the  parliament.  These  concessions,  though  con- 
siderable, g'ave  no  satisfaction  to  the  parliamentary  commissioners  ; 
and,  without  abating  anything  of  their  rigor  on  this  head,  they 
proceeded  to  their  demands  with  regard  to  the  militia. 

The  king's  partisans  had  all  along  maintained  that  the  fears 
and  jealousies  of  the  parliament,  after  the  securities  so  early  and 
easily  given  to  public  liberty,  were  either  feigned  or  groundless  ; 
and  that  no  human  institution  could  be  better  poised  and  adjusted 
than  was  now  the  government  of  England.  By  the  abolition  of 
the  star  chamber  and  court  of  high  commission,  the  prerogative, 
they  said,  has  lost  all  that  coercive  power  by  which  it  had 
formerly  suppressed  or  endangered  liberty  ;  by  the  establishment 
of  triennial  parliaments,  it  can  have  no  leisure  to  acquire  new 
powers,  or  guard  itself,  during  any  time,  from  the  inspection  of 
that  vigilant  asseml^ly  ;  by  the  slender  revenue  of  the  crown,  no 
king  can  ever  attain  such  influence  as  to  procure  a  repeal  of  these 
salutary  statutes,  and  while  the  prince  commands  no  military 
force,  he  will  in  vain  by  violence  attempt  an  infringement  of  laws 
so  clearly  defined  by  means  of  late  disputes,  and  so  passionately 
cherished  by  all  his  subjects.  In  this  situation,  surely  the  nation, 
governed  by  so  virtuous  a  monarch,  may  for  the  present  remain 
in  tranquillity,  and  try  whether  it  be  not  possible,  by  peaceful  arts, 
to  elude  that  danger  with  which  it  is  pretended  its  liberties  are 
still  threatened. 

But  though  the  royalists  insisted  on  these  plausible  topics 
before  the  commencement  of  war,  they  were  obliged  to  own,  that 
the  progress  of  civil  commotions  had  somewhat  abated  the  force 
and  evidence  of  this  reasoning.  If  the  power  of  the  militia,  said 
the  opposite  party,  be  intrusted  to  the  king,  it  would  not  now  be 
difficult  for  him  to  abuse  that  authority.  By  the  rage  of  intestine 
discord,  his  partisans  are  inflamed  into  an  extreme  hatred  against 
their  antagonists  ;  and  have  contracted,  no  doubt,  some  prejudices 
against    popular    pri\'ileges,    which,    in    their   apprehension,    have 


DAVID  HUME  197 


been  the  source  of  so  much  disorder.  Were  the  arms  of  the 
state,  therefore,  put  entirely  into  such  hands,  what  pubhc  security, 
it  may  be  demanded,  can  be  given  to  Hberty,  or  what  private 
security  to  those  who,  in  opposition  to  the  letter  of  the  law,  have 
so  generously  ventured  their  lives  in  its  defence  ?  In  compliance 
with  this  apprehension,  Charles  offered  that  the  arms  of  the  state 
should  be  intrusted,  during  three  years,  to  twenty  commissioners, 
who  should  be  named  either  by  common  agreement  between  him 
and  the  parliament,  or  one  half  by  him,  the  other  by  the  parlia- 
ment. And  after  the  expiration  of  that  term,  he  insisted  that  his 
constitutional  authority  over  the  militia  should  ag-^ain  return  to 
him. 

The  parliamentary  commissioners  at  first  demanded,  that  the 
power  of  the  sword  should  forever  be  entrusted  to  such  persons 
as  the  parliament  alone  should  appoint  ;  but  afterwards  they  re- 
la.xed  so  far  as  to  require  that  authority  only  for  seven  years  ; 
after  which  it  was  not  to  return  to  the  king,  but  to  be  settled  by 
bill,  or  by  common  agreement  between  him  and  his  parliament. 
The  king's  commissioners  asked,  whether  jealousies  and  fears  were 
all  on  one  side ;  and  whether  the  prince,  from  such  violent 
attempts  and  pretensions  as  he  had  experienced,  had  not  at  least 
as  great  reason  to  entertain  apprehensions  for  his  authority,  as 
they  for  their  liberty  .'*  Whether  there  were  any  ecjuity  in  securing 
only  one  party,  and  leaving  the  other,  during  the  space  of  seven 
years,  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  their  enemies  ?  Whether,  if  un- 
limited power  were  intrusted  to  the  parliament  during  so  long  a 
period,  it  would  not  be  easy  for  them  to  frame  the  subsequent 
bill  in  the  manner  most  agreeable  to  themselves,  and  keep  forever 
possession  of  the  sword,  as  well  as  of  every  article  of  civil  power 
and  jurisdiction. 

The  truth  is,  after  the  commencement  of  war,  it  was  very 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  security  for  both  parties, 
especially  for  that  of  the  parliament.  Amidst  such  violent  ani- 
mosities, power  alone  could  insure  safety  ;  and  the  power  of  one 
side  was  necessarily  attended  with  danger  to  the  other.  Few  or 
no  instances  occur  in  history  of  an  equal,  peaceful,  and  durable 
accommodation  that  has  been  concluded  between  two  factions 
which  had  been  inflamed  into  civil  war. 

With  regard  to  Ireland,  there  were  no  greater  hopes  of  agree- 
ment between  the  parties.  The  parliament  demanded,  that  the 
truce  with   the  rebels  should  be  declared  null  ;   that  the  manage- 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


ment  of  the  war  should  be  given  over  entirely  to  the  parliament  ; 
and  that,  after  the  conquest  of  Ireland,  the  nomination  of  the  lord 
lieutenant  and  of  the  judges,  or  in  other  words  the  sovereignty 
of  that  kingdom,  should  likewise  remain  in  their  hands. 

What  rendered  an  accommodation  more  desperate  was,  that 
the  demands  on  these  three  heads,  however  exorbitant,  were 
acknowledged,  by  the  parliamentary  commissioners,  to  be  nothing 
but  preliminaries.  After  all  these  were  granted,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  proceed  to  the  discussion  of  those  other  demands, 
still  more  exorbitant,  which  a  little  before  had  been  transmitted 
to  the  king  at  Oxford.  Such  ignominious  terms  were  there 
insisted  on,  that  worse  could  scarcely  be  demanded,  were  Charles 
totally  vanquished,  a  prisoner,  and  in  chains.  The  king^  was 
required  to  attaint  and  except  from  a  general  pardon  forty  of  the 
most  considerable  of  his  English  subjects,  and  nineteen  of  his 
Scottish,  together  with  all  Popish  recusants  in  both  kingdoms 
who  had  borne  arms  for  him.  It  was  insisted  that  forty-eight 
more,  with  all  the  members  who  had  sitten  in  either  house  at 
Oxford,  all  lawyers  and  divines  who  had  embraced  the  king's 
party,  should  be  rendered  incapable  of  any  office,  be  forbidden 
the  exercise  of  their  profession,  be  prohibited  from  coming  within 
the  verge  of  the  court,  and  forfeit  the  third  of  their  estates  to  the 
parliament.  It  was  required  that  whoever  had  borne  arms  for 
the  king,  should  forfeit  the  tenth  of  their  estates  ;  or,  if  that  did 
not  suffice,  the  sixth,  for  the  payment  of  public  debts.  As  if 
royal  authority  were  not  sufficiently  annihilated  by  such  terms,  it 
was  demanded  that  the  court  of  wards  should  be  abolished  ;  that 
all  the  considerable  officers  of  the  crown,  and  all  the  judges, 
should  be  appointed  by  parliament  ;  and  that  the  right  of  peace 
and  war  should  not  be  exercised  without  the  consent  of  that 
assembly.  The  Presbyterians,  it  must  be  confessed,  after  insist- 
ing on  such  conditions,  differed  only  in  words  from  the  Indepen- 
dents, who  required  the  establishment  of  a  pure  republic.  When 
the  debates  had  been  carried  on  to  no  purpose  during  twenty  days 
among  the  commissioners,  they  separated,  and  returned  ;  those 
of  the  king  to  Oxford,  those  of  the  parliament  to  London. 

A  little  before  the  commencement  of  his  fruitless  treaty,  a 
deed  was  executed  by  the  parliament,  which  proved  their 
determined  resolution  to  yield  nothing,  but  to  proceed  in  the  same 
violent  and  imperious  manner  with  which  they  had  at  first  entered 
on    these    dangerous    enterprises.      Archbishop    Laud,    the   most 


DAVID  HUlME  199 


favoured  minister  of  the  king,  was  brought  to  the  scaffold  ;  and 
in  this  instance  the  pubhc  might  see,  that  popular  assemblies,  as, 
by  their  very  number,  they  are  in  a  great  measure  exempt  from 
the  restraint  of  shame,  so  when  they  also  overleap  the  bounds  of 
law,  naturally  break  out  into  acts  of  the  greatest  tyranny  and 
injustice. 

From  the  time  that  Laud  had  been  committed,  the  House  of 
Commons,  engaged  in  enterprises  of  greater  moment,  had  found 
no  leisure  to  finish  his  impeachment,  and  he  had  patiently  endured 
so  long  an  imprisonment,  without  being  brought  to  any  trial. 
After  the  union  with  Scotland,  the  bigoted  prejudices  of  that 
nation  revived  the  like  spirit  in  England  ;  and  the  sectaries 
resolved  to  gratify  their  vengeance  in  the  punishment  of  this  prelate 
who  had  so  long,  by  his  authority  and  by  the  execution  of  penal 
laws,  kept  their  zealous  spirit  under  confinement.  He  was  accused 
of  high  treason,  in  endeavouring  to  subvert  the  fundamental  laws, 
and  of  other  high  crimes  and  misdemeanours.  The  same  illegality 
of  an  accumulative  crime  and  a  constructive  evidence  which 
appeared  in  the  case  of  Strafford,  the  same  violence  and  iniquity 
in  conducting  the  trial,  are  conspicuous  throughout  the  whole 
course  of  this  prosecution.  The  groundless  charge  of  Popery, 
though  belied  by  his  whole  life  and  conduct,  was  continually 
urged  against  the  prisoner  ;  and  every  error  rendered  unpardon- 
able by  this  imputation,  which  was  supposed  to  imply  the  height 
of  all  enormities.  "  This  man,  my  lords,"  said  Serjeant  Wilde, 
concluding  his  long  speech  against  him,  "  is  like  Naaman  the 
Syrian  ;  a  great  man,  but  a  leper." 

We  shall  not  enter  into  a  detail  of  this  matter,  which  at 
present  seems  to  admit  of  little  controversy.  It  suffices  to  say, 
that  after  a  long  trial,  and  the  examination  of  above  a  hundred 
and  fifty  witnesses,  the  Commons  found  so  little  likelihood  of 
obtaining  a  judicial  sentence  against  Laud,  that  they  were  obliged 
to  have  recourse  to  their  legislative  authority,  and  to  pass  an 
ordinance  for  taking  away  the  life  of  this  aged  prelate.  Notwith- 
standing the  low  condition  into  which  the  House  of  Peers  was 
fallen,  there  appeared  some  intention  of  rejecting  this  ordinance  ; 
and  the  popular  leaders  were  again  obliged  to  apply  to  the 
multitude,  and  to  extinguish,  by  threats  of  new  tumults,  the  small 
remains  of  liberty  possessed  by  the  Upper  House.  Seven  peers 
alone  voted  in  this  important  question.  The  rest,  either  from 
shame  or  fear,  took  care  to  absent  themselves. 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


Laud,  who  had  behaved  during  his  trial  with  the  spirit  and  vigour 
of  genius,  sunk  not  under  the  horrors  of  his  execution,  but  though 
he  had  usually  professed  himself  apprehensive  of  a  violent  death, 
he  found  all  his  fears  to  be  dissipated  before  that  superior  courage 
by  which  he  was  animated.  "  No  one,"  said  he,  "  can  be  more 
willing  to  send  me  out  of  life,  than  I  am  desirous  to  go."  Even 
upon  the  scaffold,  and  during  the  intervals  of  his  prayers,  he  was 
harassed  and  molested  by  Sir  John  Clotworthy,  a  zealot  of  the 
reigning  sect,  and  a  great  leader  in  the  Lower  House  :  this  was  the 
time  he  chose  for  examining  the  principles  of  the  dying  primate, 
and  trepanning  him  into  a  confession,  that  he  trusted  for  his 
salvation  to  the  merits  of  good  works,  not  to  the  death  of  the 
Redeemer.  Having  extricated  himself  from  these  theological  toils, 
the  archbishop  laid  his  head  on  the  block,  and  it  was  severed 
from  the  body  at  one  blow.  Those  religious  opinions  for  which 
he  suffered,  contributed,  no  doubt,  to  the  courage  and  constancy 
of  his  end.  Sincere  he  undoubtedly  was,  and,  however  misguided, 
actuated  by  pious  motives  in  all  his  pursuits  ;  and  it  is  to  be 
regretted  that  a  man  of  such  spirit,  who  conducted  his  enterprises 
with  so  much  warmth  and  industry,  had  not  entertained  more 
enlarged  views,  and  embraced  principles  more  favourable  to  the 
general  happiness  of  society. 

The  great  and  important  advantage  which  the  party  gained 
by  Strafford's  death,  may  in  some  degree  palliate  the  iniquity  of 
the  sentence  pronounced  against  him  ;  but  the  execution  of  this 
old,  infirm  prelate,  who  had  so  long  remained  an  inoffensive 
prisoner,  can  be  ascribed  to  nothing  but  vengeance  and  bigotry 
in  those  severe  religionists  by  whom  the  parliament  was  entirely 
governed.  That  he  deserved  a  better  fate  was  not  questioned  by 
any  reasonable  man  ;  the  degree  of  his  merit  in  other  respects 
was  disputed.  Some  accused  him  of  recommending  slavish 
doctrines,  of  promoting  persecution,  and  of  encouraging  supersti- 
tion ;  while  others  thought  that  his  conduct  in  these  three 
particulars  would  admit  of  apology  and  extenuation. 

That  the  letter  of  the  law,  as  much  as  the  most  flaming  court 
sermon,  inculcates  passive  obedience  is  apparent ;  and  though 
the  spirit  of  a  limited  government  seems  to  require,  in  extra- 
ordinary cases,  some  mitigation  of  so  rigorous  a  doctrine,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  presiding  genius  of  the  English  constitution 
had  rendered  a  mistake  in  this  particular  very  natural  and  excus- 
able.     To  inflict  death,   at  least,  on  those  who  dej^art  from  the 


DA  VI D  HUME 


exact  line  of  truth  in  these  nice  questions,  so  far  from  being 
favorable  to  national  liberty,  savors  strongly  of  the  spirit  of  tyranny 
and  proscription. 

Toleration  had  hitherto  been  so  little  the  principle  of  any 
Christian  sect,  that  even  the  Catholics,  the  remnant  of  the  religion 
professed  by  their  forefathers,  could  not  obtain  from  the  English 
the  least  indulgence.  This  very  House  of  Commons,  in  their 
famous  remonstrance,  took  care  to  justify  themselves,  as  from  the 
highest  imputation,  from  any  intention  to  relax  the  golden  reins 
of  discipline,  as  they  called  them,  or  to  grant  any  toleration  ;  and 
the  enemies  of  the  Church  were  so  fair  from  the  beginning  as 
not  to  lay  claim  to  liberty  of  conscience,  which  they  called  a 
toleration  for  soul-murder.  They  openly  challenged  the  superiority, 
and  even  menaced  the  Established  Church  with  that  persecution 
which  they  afterwards  exercised  against  her  with  such  severity. 
And  if  the  question  be  considered  in  the  view  of  policy,  though 
a  sect,  already  fomied  and  advanced,  may,  with  good  reason, 
demand  a  toleration,  what  title  had  the  Puritans  to  this  indulgence, 
who  were  just  on  the  point  of  separation  from  the  Church,  and 
whom,  it  might  be  hoped,  some  wholesome  and  legal  severities 
would  still  retain  in  obedience  ? 

Whatever  ridicule  to  a  philosophical  mind,  may  be  thrown  on 
pious  ceremonies,  it  must  be  confessed  that,  during  a  very  religious 
age,  no  institutions  can  be  more  advantageous  to  the  rude 
multitude,  and  tend  more  to  mollify  that  fierce  and  gloomy  spirit 
of  devotion  to  which  they  are  subject.  Even  the  English  Church, 
though  it  had  retained  a  share  of  Popish  ceremonies,  may  justly 
be  thought  too  naked  and  unadorned,  and  still  to  approach  too 
near  the  abstract  and  spiritual  religion  of  the  Puritans.  Laud 
and  his  associates,  by  reviving  a  few  primitive  institutions  of  this 
nature,  corrected  the  error  of  the  first  reformers,  and  presented 
to  the  afifrightened  and  astonished  mind  some  sensible,  exterior 
observances,  which  might  occupy  it  during  its  religious  exercises, 
and  abate  the  violence  of  its  disappointed  efforts.  The  thought, 
no  longer  bent  on  that  divine  and  mysterious  essence,  so  superior 
to  the  narrow  capacities  of  mankind,  was  able,  by  means  of  the 
new  model  of  devotion,  to  relax  itself  in  the  contemplation  of 
pictures,  postures,  vestments,  buildings  ;  and  all  the  fine  arts 
which  minister  to  religion,  thereby  received  additional  encourage- 
ment. The  primate,  it  is  true,  conducted  this  scheme,  not  with 
the   enlarged   sentiments   and   cool   reflection   of  a   legislator,  but 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


with  the  intemperate  zeal  of  a  sectary  ;  and  by  overlooking  the 
circumstances  of  the  times,  served  rather  to  inflame  that  religious 
fury  which  he  meant  to  repress.  But  this  blemish  is  more  to  be 
regarded  as  a  general  imputation  on  the  whole  age,  than  any 
particular  failing  of  Laud's  ;  and  it  is  sufficient  for  his  vindication 
to  observe,  that  his  errors  were  the  most  excusable  of  all  those 
which  prevailed  during  that  zealous  period. 

(From  the  His/ory  of  England.') 


CHARACTER   OF   HIMSELF 

To  conclude  historically  with  my  own  character.  I  am,  or 
rather  was  (for  that  is  the  style  I  must  now  use  in  speaking  of 
myself,  which  emboldens  me  the  more  to  speak  my  sentiments)  ; 
I  was,  I  say,  a  man  of  mild  dispositions,  of  command  of  temper, 
of  an  open,  social,  and  cheerful  humour,  capable  of  attachment, 
but  little  susceptible  of  enmity,  and  of  great  moderation  in  all  my 
passions.  Even  my  love  of  literary  fame,  my  ruling  passion, 
never  soured  my  temper,  notwithstanding  my  frequent  disappoint- 
ments. My  company  was  not  unacceptable  to  the  young  and 
careless,  as  well  as  to  the  studious  and  literary  ;  and  as  I  took  a 
particular  pleasure  in  the  company  of  modest  women,  I  had  no 
reason  to  be  displeased  with  the  reception  I  met  with  from  them. 
In  a  word,  though  most  men  anywise  eminent,  have  found  reason 
to  complain  of  calumny,  I  never  was  touched,  or  even  attacked  by 
her  baleful  tooth  ;  and  though  I  wantonly  exposed  myself  to  the 
rage  of  both  civil  and  religious  factions,  they  seemed  to  be  dis- 
armed in  my  behalf  of  their  wonted  fury.  My  friends  never  had 
occasion  to  vindicate  any  one  circumstance  of  my  character  and 
conduct ;  not  but  that  the  zealots,  we  may  well  suppose,  would 
have  been  glad  to  invent  and  propagate  any  story  to  my  disad- 
vantage, but  they  could  never  find  any  which  they  thought  would 
wear  the  face  of  probability.  I  cannot  say  there  is  no  vanity  in 
making  this  funeral  oration  of  myself,  but  I  hope  it  is  not  a  mis- 
placed one  ;  and  this  is  a  matter  of  fact  which  is  easily  cleared 
and  ascertained. 

1 8//^  April  1776.  (From  My  Ozun  Life.) 


DAVID  HUME  203 


WHERE    PHILOSOPHY    IS    HELPLESS 

Whoever  considers,  without  prejudice,  the  course  of  human 
actions,  will  find  that  mankind  are  almost  entirely  guided  by  con- 
stitution and  temper,  and  that  general  maxims  have  little  influence 
so  far  as  they  affect  our  taste  or  sentiment.  If  a  man  have  a  lively 
sense  of  honour  and  virtue,  with  moderate  passions,  his  conduct 
will  always  be  conformable  to  the  rules  of  morality  ;  or  if  he  depart 
from  them,  his  return  will  be  easy  and  expeditious.  On  the  other 
hand,  where  one  is  born  of  so  perverse  a  frame  of  mind,  of  so 
callous  and  insensible  a  disposition  as  to  have  no  relish  for  virtue 
and  humanity,  no  sympathy  with  his  fellow-creatures,  no  desire  of 
esteem  and  applause,  such  a  one  must  be  allowed  entirely  incur- 
able, nor  is  there  any  remedy  in  philosophy.  He  reaps  no  satis- 
faction but  from  low  and  sensual  objects,  or  from  the  indulgence 
of  malignant  passions  :  he  feels  no  remorse  to  control  his  vicious 
inclinations  :  he  has  not  even  that  sense  or  taste  which  is  requisite 
to  make  him  desire  a  better  character.  For  my  part,  I  know  not 
how  I  should  address  myself  to  such  an  one,  or  by  what  arguments 
I  should  endeavour  to  reform  him.  Should  I  tell  him  of  the 
inward  satisfaction  which  results  from  laudable  and  humane  actions, 
the  delicate  pleasure  of  disinterested  love  and  friendship,  the 
lasting  enjoyments  of  a  good  name  and  an  established  character, 
he  might  still  reply  that  these  were,  perhaps,  pleasures  to  such  as 
were  susceptible  of  them  ;  but  that,  for  his  part,  he  finds  himself 
of  a  quite  different  turn  and  disposition.  I  must  repeat  it,  my 
philosophy  affords  no  remedy  in  such  a  case,  nor  could  I  do  any- 
thing but  lament  this  person's  unhappy  condition.  But  then  I 
ask,  If  any  other  philosophy  can  afford  a  remedy .''  or  If  it  be 
possible  by  any  system  to  render  all  mankind  virtuous,  however 
perverse  may  be  their  natural  frame  of  mind  ?  Experience  will 
soon  convince  us  of  the  contrary  ;  and  I  will  venture  to  affirm 
that,  perhaps,  the  chief  benefit  which  results  from  philosophy 
arises  in  an  indirect  manner,  and  proceeds  more  from  its  secret, 
insensible  influence,  than  from  its  immediate  application. 

(F"rom  T/ic  Sceptic.') 


204  ENGLISH  PROSE 


THE    STATE'S    INTEREST    IN    STORED    LABOUR 

Everything  in  the  world  is  purchased  by  labour,  and  our 
passions  are  the  only  causes  of  labour.  When  a  nation  abounds 
in  manufactures  and  mechanic  arts,  the  proprietors  of  land,  as 
well  as  the  farmers,  study  agriculture  as  a  science,  and  redouble 
their  industry  and  attention.  The  superfluity,  which  arises  from 
their  labour,  is  not  lost,  but  is  exchanged  with  manufactures  for 
those  commodities  which  men's  luxury  now  makes  theni  covet. 
By  this  means  land  furnishes  a  great  deal  more  of  the  necessaries 
of  life  than  what  suffices  for  those  who  cultivate  it.  In  times  of 
peace  and  tranquillity  this  superfluity  goes  to  the  maintenance 
of  manufacturers,  and  the  impro\ers  of  liberal  arts.  But  it  is 
easy  for  the  public  to  convert  many  of  these  manufacturers  into 
soldiers,  and  maintain  them  by  that  superfluity  which  arises  from 
the  labour  of  the  fanners.  Accordingly  we  find  that  this  is  the 
case  in  all  civilised  go\emments.  When  the  sovereign  raises  an 
army,  what  is  the  consequence  .''  He  imposes  a  tax.  This  tax 
obliges  all  the  people  to  retrench  what  is  least  necessary  to  their 
subsistence.  Those  who  labour  in  such  commodities  must  either 
enlist  in  the  troops,  or  turn  themselves  to  agriculture,  and  thereby 
oblige  some  labourers  to  enlist  for  want  of  business.  And  to  con- 
sider the  matter  abstractedly,  manufacturers  increase  the  power 
of  the  state  only  as  they  store  up  so  much  labour,  and  that  of  a 
kind  to  which  the  public  may  lay  claim  without  depriving  anyone 
of  the  necessaries  of  life.  The  more  labour,  therefore,  is  employed 
beyond  mere  necessaries,  the  more  powerful  is  any  state ;  since 
the  persons  engaged  in  that  labour  may  easily  be  converted  to  the 
public  service.  In  a  state  without  manufacturers,  there  may  be 
the  same  number  of  hands,  but  there  is  not  the  same  quantity  of 
labour,  nor  of  the  same  kind.  All  the  labour  is  there  bestowed 
upon  necessaries,  which  can  admit  of  little  or  no  abatement. 

Thus  the  greatness  of  the  sovereign  and  the  happiness  of  the 
state  are,  in  a  great  measure,  united  with  regard  to  trade  and 
manufactures.  It  is  a  violent  method,  and  in  most  cases  imprac- 
ticable, to  oblige  the  labourer  to  toil  in  order  to  raise  from  the  land 
more  than  what  subsists  himself  and  family.  Furnish  him  with 
maniifactures  and  commodities,  and  he  will  do  it  of  himself. 
Afterwards  you  will  find  it  easy  to  seize  some  part  of  his  superflu- 
ous labour,  and  employ  it  in  the  public  service  without  giving  him 


DAVID  HUME  205 


his  wonted  return.  Being  accustomed  to  industry,  he  will  think 
his  less  grievous  than  if,  at  once,  you  obliged  him  to  augmenta- 
tion of  labour  without  any  reward.  The  case  is  the  same  with 
regard  to  the  other  members  of  the  state.  The  greater  is  the 
stock  of  labour  of  all  kinds,  the  greater  cjuantity  may  l^e  taken 
from  the  heap,  without  making  any  sensible  alteration  in  it. 


(From  Of  Coiiiincrce.) 


REASON    NO    AID    TO    RELIGION 

I  AM  the  better  pleased  with  the  method  of  reasoning  here 
delivered,  as  I  think  it  may  serve  to  confound  those  dangerous 
friends  or  disguised  enemies  to  the  Christian  religion,  who  have 
undertaken  to  defend  it  by  the  principles  of  human  reason.  Our 
most  holy  religion  is  founded  on  faith,  not  on  reason  ;  and  it  is  a 
sure  method  of  exposing  it  to  put  it  to  such  a  trial  as  it  is  by  no 
means  fitted  to  endure.  To  make  this  more  evident,  let  us 
examine  those  miracles  related  in  Scripture  ;  and  not  to  lose  our- 
selves in  too  wide  a  field,  let  us  confine  ourselves  to  such  as  we 
find  in  the  Poitatciich,  which  we  shall  examine  according  to  the 
principles  of  those  pretended  Christians,  not  as  the  word  or  testi- 
mony of  God  himself,  but  as  the  production  of  a  mere  human 
writer  and  historian.  Here  then  we  are  first  to  consider  a  book, 
presented  to  us  by  a  barbarous  and  ignorant  people,  written  in  an 
age  when  they  are  still  more  barbarous,  and  in  all  probability  long 
after  the  facts  which  it  relates,  corroborated  by  no  concurring 
testimony,  and  resembling  those  fabulous  accounts  which  every 
nation  gives  of  its  origin.  Upon  reading  this  book  we  find  it  full 
of  prodigies  and  miracles.  It  gives  an  account  of  a  state  of  the 
world  and  of  human  nature  entirely  different  from  the  present  ; 
of  our  fall  from  that  state ;  of  the  age  of  man,  extended  to  near  a 
thousand  years  ;  of  the  destruction  of  the  world  by  a  deluge  ;  of 
the  arbitrary  choice  of  one  people  as  the  favourites  of  heaven,  and 
that  people  the  countrymen  of  the  author  ;  of  their  deliverance 
from  bondage  by  prodigies  the  most  astonishing  imaginable.  I 
desire  any  one  to  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  after  a  serious 
consideration  declare  whether  he  thinks  that  the  falsehood  of  such 
a  book,  supported  by  such  a  testimony,  would  be  more   extraor- 


2o6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


dinary  and  miraculous  than  all  the  miracles  it  relates  ;  which  is, 
however,  necessary  to  make  it  be  received,  according  to  the  mea- 
sures of  probability  above  established. 

What  we  have  said  of  miracles  may  be  applied,  without  any 
variation,  to  prophecies  ;  and,  indeed,  all  prophecies  are  real 
miracles,  and  as  such  only  can  be  admitted  as  proofs  of  any 
revelation.  If  it  did  not  exceed  the  capacity  of  human  nature  to 
foretell  future  events,  it  would  be  absurd  to  employ  any  prophecy 
as  an  arg-ument  for  a  divine  mission  or  authority  from  heaven. 
So  that,  upon  the  whole,  we  may  conclude  that  the  Christian 
religion  not  only  was  at  first  attended  with  miracles,  but  even  at 
this  day  cannot  be  believed  by  any  reasonable  person  without  one. 
Mere  reason  is  insufficient  to  convince  us  of  its  veracity.  And 
whoever  is  moved  by  faith  to  assent  to  it,  is  conscious  of  a  con- 
tinued miracle  in  his  own  person,  which  subverts  all  the  principles 
of  his  understanding,  and  gives  him  a  determination  to  believe 
what  is  most  contrary  to  custom  and  experience. 

(From  An  E/iqiihy  concerning  Human  Unders/and/ng.) 


LAURENCE  STERNE 


[Laurence  Sterne  was  born  at  Clonmel  on  the  24th  of  November  171 3. 
His  father,  Roger  Sterne,  was  an  ensign  of  Foot,  who  had  served  in  the 
great  war  whicli  was  brought  to  a  close  by  the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  and  whose 
regiment  had  just  been  disbanded  on  its  arrival  in  Ireland  a  day  or  two  before 
the  infant's  birth  took  place.  After  some  months  of  enforced  idleness  his 
regiment  was  again  embodied,  and  for  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life  Laurence 
accompanied  his  father  and  mother  in  their  continual  movements,  under 
military  orders,  from  place  to  place.  In  the  autumn  of  1723,  however,  or 
the  spring  of  the  following  year,  the  boy  was  sent  to  Halifax  Grammar  School, 
whence,  after  a  stay  of  about  eight  years,  near  the  end  of  which  period  his 
father  died,  he  was  sent,  at  the  charges  of  a  cousin  on  the  paternal  side, 
to  Cambridge,  where  he  obtained  a  sizarship  at  Jesus  and  duly  proceeded  to 
his  B.A.  degree.  Dr.  Jacques  Sterne,  an  elder  brother  of  his  father's,  now 
undertook  the  advancement  of  his  fortunes  ;  and  immediately  on  his  taking 
priest's  orders  procured  for  him  the  Yorkshire  living  of  Sutton  in  the  Forest, 
into  which  he  was  inducted  in  1738,  and  which  he  held  in  complete  obscurity 
for  upwards  of  twenty  years.  In  1759,  in  consequence,  as  he  alleged,  of  a 
coolness  having  arisen  between  him  and  his  uncle,  for  whose  advantage 
he  had,  according  to  his  own  account,  been  employing  his  brain  and  his  pen 
without  adequate  recognition,  he  "  turned  author"  on  his  own  account.  The 
first  two  volumes  of  Tristram  Shandy  appeared  in  1760  ;  and  Sterne  leaped  at 
one  bound  into  fame.  The  book  became  the  rage  of  London,  and  the  author 
the  lion  of  its  fashionable  society.  One  of  his  aristocratic  patrons.  Lord 
Fauconberg,  presented  him  to  the  living  of  Coxwold  in  Yorkshire,  whither  he 
retired  after  his  London  triumph,  and  whence  in  the  following  year  he  sent 
forth  the  third  and  fourth  volumes  of  this  famous  extravaganza  of  fiction. 
About  the  middle  of  1761,  however,  the  health  of  the  author,  never  very 
robust,  began  to  fail  ;  and  during  the  six  following  years  the  remaining 
volumes  V.  to  IX.,  appeared  at  irregular  intervals  determined  by  Sterne's 
repeated  visits  to  and  prolonged  sojourns  in  France  and  Italy.  The  ninth,  and 
as  it  proved,  the  last  volume  of  Tristram  Shandy  appeared  in  January  1767, 
and  was  followed  in  February  of  the  next  year  by  the  Sentimental  Journey.  A 
month  later,  on  the  i8th  March  1768,  Sterne  died  of  pleurisy  at  his  lodgings 
in  Bond  Street.] 

To  talk  of  "  the  style  "  of  Sterne  is  almost  to  play  one  of  those 
tricks  with  language  of  which  he  himself  was  so  fond.      For  there 


2o8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


is  hardly  any  definition  of  the  word  which  can  make  it  possible 
to  describe  him  as  having  any  style  at  all.  It  is  not  only  that  he 
manifestly  recognised  no  external  canons  whereto  to  conform  the 
expression  of  his  thoughts,  but  he  had  apparently  no  inclination 
to  invent  and  observe,  except  indeed  in  the  most  negative  of 
senses,  any  style  of  his  own.  The  "  style  of  Sterne,"  in  short,  is 
as  though  one  should  say  "  the  form  of  Proteus." 

He  was  determined  to  be  uniformly  eccentric,  regularly 
irregular,  and  that  was  all.  His  digressions,  his  "  asides,"  and  his 
fooleries,  in  general,  would  of  course  have  in  any  case  necessi- 
tated a  certain  jerkiness  of  manner  ;  but  this  need  hardly  have 
extended  itself  habitually  to  the  structure  of  individual  sentences, 
and  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  can  at  times  write,  as  he  does  for  the 
most  part  in  his  sermons,  in  a  style  which  is  not  the  less  vigorous 
for  being  fairly  correct.  But  as  a  rule  his  mode  of  expressing 
himself  is  destitute  of  any  pretensions  to  precision  ;  and  in  many 
instances  it  is  a  perfect  marvel  of  literary  slipshod.  Nor  is  there 
any  ground  for  believing  that  the  slovenliness  was  invariably 
intentional.  Sterne's  truly  hideous  French — French  at  which 
even  the  average  English  tourist  would  stand  aghast — is  in  itself 
sufficient  evidence  of  a  natural  insensibility  to  grammatical 
accuracy.  Here  there  can  be  no  suspicion  of  designed  defiance 
of  rules  ;  and  more  than  one  solecism  of  rather  a  serious  kind  in 
his  use  of  English  words  and  phrases  affords  confirmatory  testi- 
mony to  the  same  point.  His  punctuation  is  fearful  and  wonder- 
ful, even  for  an  age  in  which  the  fationalc  of  punctuation  was 
more  imperfectly  understood  than  it  is  at  present ;  and  this,  though 
an  apparently  slight  matter,  is  not  without  value  as  an  indication 
of  ways  of  thought.  But  if  we  can  hardly  describe  Sterne's  style 
as  being  in  the  literary  sense  a  style  at  all,  it  has  a  very  distinct 
colloquial  character  of  its  own,  and  as  such  it  is  nearly  as  much 
deserving  of  praise  as  from  the  literary  point  of  view  it  is  open 
to  exception.  Chaotic  as  it  is  in  the  syntactical  sense,  it 
is  a  perfectly  clear  vehicle  for  the  conveyance  of  thought. 
We  are  as  rarely  at  a  loss  for  the  meaning  of  one  of  Sterne's 
sentences,  as  we  are,  for  very  different  reasons,  for  the  meaning 
of  one  of  Macaulay's.  And  his  language  is  so  full  of  life  and 
colour,  his  tone  so  animated  and  vivacious,  that  we  forget  we  are 
reading  and  not  listening,  and  we  are  as  little  disposed  to  be 
exacting  in  respect  to  form  as  though  we  were  listeners  in  actual 
fact.      Sterne's  manner,  in  short,  may  be  that  of  a  bad  and  care- 


LAURENCE  STERNE  209 

less  writer^  but  it  is  the  manner  of  a  first-rate  talker  ;  and  this  of 
course  enhances  rather  than  detracts  from  the  unwearying  charm 
of  his  wit  and  humour. 

It  is  by  the  latter  of  these  qualities — though  he  had  the  former 
in  almost  equal  abundance — that  he  lives.  No  doubt  he  valued 
himself  no  less,  perhaps  even  more  highly,  on  his  sentiment, 
and  was  prouder  of  his  acute  sensibility  to  the  sorrows  of  man- 
kind, than  of  his  keen  eye  for  their  absurdities,  and  his  genially 
satiric  appreciation  of  their  foibles.  But  posterity  has  not 
confirmed  Sterne's  judgment  of  himself.  His  passages  of  pathos, 
sometimes  genuine  and  deeply  moving,  too  often  on  the  other 
hand  only  impress  the  modern  reader  with  their  artificial  and 
overstrained  sentimentalism.  The  affecting  too  often  degenerates 
into  the  affected.  To  trace  the  causes  of  this  degeneration  would 
be  a  work  involving  too  complex  a  process  of  analysis  to  be 
undertaken  in  this  place.  But  the  sum  of  the  whole  matter 
seems  to  be  that  the  "sentiment"  on  which  Sterne  so  prided  himself 
— the  acute  sensibilities  which  he  regarded  with  such  extra- 
ordinary complacency — were  in  reality  the  weakness  and  not  the 
strength  of  his  pathetic  style.  When  Sterne  the  artist  is 
uppermost,  when  he  is  surveying  the  characters  with  that 
penetrating  eye  of  his,  and  above  all  when  he  is  allowing  his 
subtle  and  tender  humour  to  play  around  them  unrestrained,  he 
can  touch  the  cords  of  compassionate  emotion  in  us  with  a  potent 
and  unerring  hand.  But  when  Sterne  the  man  is  uppermost, 
when  he  is  looking  inward  and  not  outward,  contemplating  his 
own  feelings  and  not  those  of  his  personages,  his  cunning  fails 
him  altogether.  In  other  words  he  is  at  his  best  in  pathos  when 
he  is  most  the  humourist  ;  or  rather,  we  may  almost  say,  his 
pathos  is  never  true  unless  when  it  is  closely  interwoven  with 
his  humour. 

Still  it  is  comparatively  seldom  that  this  foible  of  Sterne 
obtrudes  itself  upon  the  strictly  narrative  and  dramatic  part  of  his 
work.  It  is,  generally  speaking,  in  the  episodical  passages,  such, 
for  instance,  as  the  story  of  the  distraught  Maria  of  Moulines,  or 
that  incident  of  the  dead  donkey  of  Nampont  which  Thackeray 
so  mercilessly,  though  not  unfairly,  ridiculed,  that  Sterne  most 
"  lays  himself  out "  to  be  pathetic  ;  it  is  in  these  digressions,  as 
they  may  almost  be  called,  that  he  becomes  lugubrious  "  of  mafice 
aforethought,"  so  to  say  ;  and  it  is  therefore  only  in  such  excep- 
tional cases  that  the  expectation  is  disappointed,  and  the  critical 

VOL.   IV  P 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


judgment  offended,  by  the  failures  of  the  kind  above,  described. 
On  the  main  road  of  his  story — if  it  can  be  said  to  have  a  main 
road — he  is  usually  saved  from  such  lapses  of  artistic  taste  by  his 
strong  dramatic  instinct.  Perpetual  as  are  his  affectations,  and  tire- 
some as  his  eternal  self-consciousness,  when  he  is  speaking  in  his 
own  person,  often  becomes,  yet  when  once  this  dramatic  instinct 
fairly  lays  hold  of  him  there  is  no  writer  who  can  make  us  more 
completely  forget  him  in  the  presence  of  his  characters,  none  who 
can  bring  them  and  their  surroundings,  their  looks  and  words 
before  us  with  such  convincing  force  of  reality. 

But  if  he  makes  us  see  them  thus  clearly,  and  thus  plainly  hear 
them,  it  is  of  course  because  of  the  matchless  vigour  and  truth  of 
touch  with  which  their  figures  are  first  made  to  stand  forth  upon 
his  canvass.  And  it  is  in  fact  the  union  with  Sterne's  other  rare 
intellectual  and  artistic  qualities  of  this  rarest  gift  of  all  which  has 
won  for  him  his  unicjue  place  in  our  literature.  Neither  wit,  nor 
humour,  nor  creative  power,  nor  skill  of  dramatic  handling,  would 
have  done  that  for  him  if  it  had  stood  alone.  They  might,  any 
of  them,  have  made  him  famous  in  his  time  ;  iDut,  except  in  con- 
junction, they  could  not  have  raised  him  to  the  rank  he  holds 
among  the  classics  of  English  prose  fiction.  The  extravagant 
Rabelaisian  drollery  that  revels  through  the  pages  of  Tristrajii 
S/iandy,  the  marvellous  keenness  of  eye,  the  inimitable  delicacy 
of  touch  to  which  we  owe  the  exquisite  vignettes  of  the  Scniiinental 
Journey^  would  hardly  of  themselves  have  secured  the  place  for 
Sterne.  But  it  is  for  ever  assured  to  him  in  right  of  that  com- 
bination of  subjective  and  personal  with  objective  and  dramatic 
humour  in  which  he  has  never  been  excelled  by  any  one  save  the 
creator  of  Falstaff.  In  Mr.  Shandy  and  his  wife,  in  Corporal 
Trim,  in  Yorick,  and  above  all  in  that  masterpiece  of  mirthful, 
subtle,  tenderly  humorous  portraiture,  "  My  Uncle  Toby,"  Sterne 
has  created  imperishable  types  of  character  and  made  them 
remarkably  his  own. 

H.  D.  Traill. 


MY  UNCLE  TOBY'S   SIEGE   OPERATIONS 

When  Corporal  Trim  had  brought  his  two  mortars  to  bear,  he 
was  dehghted  with  his  handy- work  above  measure  ;  knowing 
what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  his  master  to  see  them,  he  was 
not  able  to  resist  the  desire  he  had  of  carrying  them  directly  into 
his  parlour. 

Now,  to  the  next  moral  lesson  I  had  in  view,  in  mentioning 
the  affair  of  hinges,  I  had  a  speculative  consideration  arising  out 
of  it,  and  it  is  this. 

Had  the  parlour-door  opened  and  turned  upon  its  hinges,  as  a 
door  should  do  ; — 

Or,  for  example,  as  cleverly  as  our  government  has  been  turn- 
ing upon  its  hinges, — (that  is,  in  case  things  have  all  along  gone 
well  with  your  worship, — otherwise  I  give  up  my  simile) — in 
this  case,  I  say,  there  had  been  no  danger,  either  to  master  or 
man,  in  Corporal  Trim's  peeping  in  :  the  moment  he  had  beheld 
my  father  and  my  uncle  Toby  fast  asleep, — the  respectfulness  of 
his  carriage  was  such,  he  would  have  retired  as  silent  as  death, 
and  left  them  both  in  their  arm-chairs,  dreaming  as  happy  as  he 
had  found  them  :  but  the  thing  was,  morally  speaking,  so  very 
impracticible,  that  for  the  many  years  in  which  this  hinge  was 
suffered  to  be  out  of  order,  and  amongst  the  hourly  grievances 
my  father  submitted  to  on  its  account, — this  was  one  ;  that  he 
never  folded  his  arms  to  take  his  nap  after  dinner,  but  the 
thoughts  of  being  unavoidably  awakened  by  the  first  person 
who  should  open  the  door,  was  almost  uppermost  in  his  imagina- 
tion, and  so  incessantly  stepped  in  betwixt  him  and  the  first 
balmy  presage  of  his  repose,  as  to  rob  him,  as  he  often  declared, 
of  the  whole  sweets  of  it. 

'  When  things  move  upon  bad  hinges,  an'  please  your  lord- 
ships, how  can  it  be  otherwise  ? ' 

"  Pray  what's   the  matter  ?      Who   is   there  ?"  cried  my  father, 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


waking,  the  moment  the  door  began  to  creak,  "  I  wish  the  smith 
would  give  a  peep  at  that  confounded  hinge."  "  It  is  nothing, 
an'  please  your  honour,"  said  Trim,  "  but  two  mortars  I  am 
bringing  in."  "They  shan't  make  a  clatter  with  them  here," 
cried  my  father,  hastily.  "  If  Doctor  Slop  has  any  drugs  to 
pound,  let  him  do  it  in  the  kitchen."  "  May  it  please  your 
honour,"  cried  Trim,  "  they  are  two  mortar-pieces  for  a  siege 
ne.xt  summer,  which  I  have  been  making  out  of  a  pair  of  jack- 
boots, which  Obadiah  told  me  your  honour  had  left  off  wearing." 
"  By  heaven  ! "  cried  my  father,  springing  out  of  his  chair,  as  he 
swore,  "  I  have  not  one  appointment  belonging  to  me,  which  1 
set  so  much  store  by,  as  I  do  by  these  jack-boots  :  they  were  our 
great-grandfather's,  brother  Toby  :  they  were  hereditary."  "  Then 
I  fear,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  "  Trim  has  cut  off  the  entail." 
"  I  have  only  cut  off  the  tops,  an'  please  your  honour"  cried  Trim, 
"  I  hate  perpetuities  as  much  as  any  man  alive,"  cried  my  father, 
"  but  these  jack-boots,"  continued  he  (smiling,  though  very  angry 
at  the  same  time)  "  have  been  in  the  family,  brother,  ever  since 
the  civil  wars  :  Sir  Roger  Shandy  wore  them  at  the  battle  of 
Marston-Moor.  I  declare  I  would  not  have  taken  ten  pounds 
for  them."  "  I'll  pay  you  the  money,  brother  Shandy,"  quoth 
my  uncle  Toby,  looking  at  the  two  mortars  with  infinite  pleasure, 
and  putting  his  hand  into  his  breeches  pocket  as  he  viewed  them, 
"  I'll   pay  you  the  ten  pounds  this  moment,  with  all  my  heart  and 

soul." 

"  Brother  Toby,"  replied  my  father,  altering  his  tone,  "  you 
care  not  what  money  you  dissipate  and  throw  away  provided," 
continued  he,  "  it  is  but  upon  a  siege."  "  Have  I  not  a  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  a  year,  besides  my  half-pay  ? "  cried  my  uncle 
Toby.  "  What  is  that,"  replied  my  father  hastily,  "  to  ten 
pounds  for  a  pair  of  jack-boots  ?  twelve  guineas  for  your  pontoons  ? 
half  as  much  for  your  Dutch  drawbridge  ?  to  say  nothing  of  the 
train  of  little  brass  artillery  you  bespoke  last  week,  with  twenty 
other  preparations  for  the  siege  of  Messina.  Believe  me,  dear 
brother  Toby,"  continued  my  father,  taking  him  kindly  by  the 
hand,  "  these  military  operations  of  yours  are  above  your  strength  : 
you  mean  well,  brother,  but  they  carry  you  into  greater  expenses 
than  you  were  first  aware  of;  and  take  my  word,  dear  Toby,  they 
will  in  the  end,  quite  ruin  your  fortune,  and  make  a  beggar  of 
you."  "  What  signifies  it  if  they  do,  brother,"  replied  my  uncle 
Toby,  "  so  long  as  we  know  it  is  for  the  good  of  the  nation  ? " 


LAURENCE  STERNE  213 

My  father  could  not  help  smiling,  for  his  soul — his  anger,  at 
the  worst,  was  never  more  than  a  spark — and  the  zeal  and  simpli- 
city of  Trim,  and  the  generous  (though  hobby-horsical)  gallantry 
of  my  uncle  Toby,  brought  him  into  perfect  good  humour  with 
them  in  an  instant. 

"  Generous  souls  !  God  prosper  you  both,  and  your  mortar- 
pieces  too  ! "  quoth  my  father  to  himself. 

(From  Trisfrmn  S/ui/idv.) 


THE   DEATH   OF   BOBBY 

Now  let  us  go  back  to  my  brother's  death. 

Philosophy  has  a  fine  saying  for  everything.  For  death  it  has 
an  entire  set ;  the  misery  was,  they  all  at  once  rushed  into  my 
father's  head,  that  'twas  difficult  to  string  them  together,  so  as  to 
make  anything  of  a  consistent  show  out  of  them.  He  took  them 
as  they  came. 

"  It  is  an  inevitable  chance — the  first  statute  in  Magna  Charta 
— it  is  an  everlasting  act  of  parliament,  my  dear  brother,  all 
must  die. 

"  If  my  son  could  not  have  died  it  had  been  matter  of  wonder 
— not  that  he  is  dead. 

"  Monarchs  and  princes  dance  in  the  same  ring  with  us. 

"  To  die,  is  the  great  debt  and  tribute  due  unto  nature  :  tombs 
and  monuments,  which  should  perpetuate  our  memories,  pay  it 
themselves  ;  and  the  proudest  pyramid  of  them  all,  which  wealth 
and  science  have  erected,  has  lost  its  apex,  and  stands  obtruncated 
in  the  traveller's  horizon." 

(My  father  found  he  got  great  ease,  and  went  on) — "  Kingdoms 
and  provinces,  towns  and  cities,  have  they  not  their  periods  ? 
And  when  those  principles  and  powers,  which  at  first  cemented 
and  put  them  together,  have  performed  their  several  evolutions, 
they  fall  back."  "  Brother  Shandy,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  laying 
down  his  pipe  at  the  word  evolutions.  '■'■  Re^'o/ufions,  I  meant," 
quoth  my  father ;  by  Heaven  !  I  meant  revolutions,  brother 
Toby  ;  evolutions  is  nonsense."  "It  is  not  nonsense,"  said  my 
uncle  Toby.  "  But  is  it  not  nonsense  to  break  the  thread  of  such 
a  discourse,  upon  such  an  occasion  ? "  cried  my  father,  "  do  not 
— dear  Toby,"  continued  he,  taking  him  by  the  hand    "  do  not — 


214  ENGLISH  PROSE 


do  not,  I  beseech  thee,  interrupt  me  at  this  crisis."  My  uncle 
Toby  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth. 

"  Where  is  Troy  and  Mycena?,  and  Thebes  and  Delos,  and 
PersepoHs,  and  Agrigentum  ? "  continued  my  father,  taking  up 
his  book  of  post-roads,  which  he  had  laid  down.  "  What  is 
become,  brother  Toby,  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon,  of  Cyzicum  and 
MitylentE  ?  The  fairest  towns  that  ever  the  sun  rose  upon  are 
now  no  more  ;  the  names  only  are  left,  and  those  (for  many  of 
them  are  wrong  spelt)  are  falling  themselves  by  piecemeals  to 
decay,  and  in  length  of  time  will  be  forgotten,  and  involved  with 
everything  in  a  perpetual  night  ;  the  world  itself,  brother  Toby, 
must — must  come  to  an  end. 

"  Returning  out  of  Asia,  when  I  sailed  from  ^Egina  towards 
Megara,"  ["  When  can  this  have  been  ?"  thought  my  uncle  Toby] 
"  I  began  to  view  the  country  round  about.  yEgina  was  behind 
me,  Megara  was  before,  Pirasus  on  the  right  hand,  Corinth  on  the 
left. — What  flourishing  towns  now  prostrate  upon  the  earth  ! 
'  Alas  !  alas  ! '  said  1  to  myself,  '  that  man  should  disturb  his 
soul  for  the  loss  of  a  child,  when  so  much  as  this  lies  awfully 
buried  in  his  presence  ! '  '  Remember,'  said  I  to  myself  again, 
'  Remember  thou  art  a  man.'  " 

Now,  my  uncle  Toby  knew  not  that  this  last  paragraph  was  an 
extract  of  Servius  Sulpicius's  consolatory  letter  to  Tully.  He  had 
as  little  skill,  honest  man,  in  the  fragments,  as  he  had  in  the  whole 
pieces  of  antiquity.  And  as  my  father,  whilst  he  was  concerned 
in  the  Turkey  trade,  had  been  three  or  four  different  times  in  the 
Levant,  in  one  of  which  he  had  staid  a  whole  year  and  a  half  at 
Zante,  my  uncle  Toby  naturally  concluded  that,  in  some  one  of 
these  periods,  he  had  taken  a  trip  across  the  Archipelago  into 
Asia  ;  and  that  all  this  sailing  affair,  with  i^Lgina  behind,  and 
Megara  before,  and  Pirreus  on  the  right  hand,  etc.,  etc.,  was 
nothing  more  than  the  true  course  of  my  father's  voyage  and 
reflections. 

'Twas  certainly  in  his  manner,  and  many  an  undertaking  critic 
would  have  built  two  stories  higher  upon  worse  foundations. 
"And  pray,  brother,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  laying  the  end  of 
his  pipe  upon  my  father's  hand  in  a  kindly  way  of  interruption, 
but  waiting  till  he  had  finished  the  account, — "what  year  of  our 
Lord  was  this?"  "It  was  no  year  of  our  Lord,"  replied  my 
father.  "  That's  impossible  !  "  cried  my  uncle  Toby.  "  Simple- 
ton !  "  said  my  father — "  it  was  forty  years  before  Christ  was 
born." 


LAURENCE  STERNE  215 


My  uncle  Toby  had  but  two  things  for  it  ;  either  to  suppose 
his  brother  to  be  the  Wandering  Jew,  or  that  his  misfortunes  had 
disordered  his  brain.  —  "May  the  Lord  God  of  Heaven  and 
earth  protect  him  and  restore  him  ! "  said  my  uncle  Toby,  praying 
silently  for  my  father,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

My  father  placed  the  tears  to  a  proper  account,  and  went  on 
with  his  harangue  with  great  spirit. 

"There  is  not  such  great  odds,  brother  Toby,  betwixt  good 
and  evil,  as  the  world  imagines."  (This  way  of  setting  off,  by 
the  bye,  was  not  likely  to  cure  my  uncle  Toby's  suspicions.) 
"  Labour,  sorrow,  grief,  sickness,  want,  and  woe,  are  the  sauces  of 
life."  "  Much  good  may  it  do  them  ! "  said  my  uncle  Toby  to 
himself. 

"  My  son  is  dead  ! — so  much  the  better  ; — 'tis  a  shame,  in  such 
a  tempest  to  have  but  one  anchor. 

"But  he  is  gone  for  ever  from  us!  —  Be  it  so.  He  is  got 
from  under  the  hands  of  his  barber  before  he  was  bald  ;  but  he 
is  risen  from  a  feast  before  he  was  surfeited  ;  from  a  banquet 
before  he  had  got  drunken. 

"The  Thracians  wept  when  a  child  was  born"  ("And  we 
were  very  near  it,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby),  "and  feasted  and 
made  merry  when  a  man  went  out  of  the  world  ;  and  with  reason. 
Death  opens  the  gate  of  Fame  and  shuts  the  gate  of  Envy  after 
it :  it  unlooses  the  chain  of  the  captive,  and  puts  the  bondsman's 
task  into  another  man's  hands. 

"  Show  me  the  man,  who  knows  what  life  is,  who  dreads  it, 
and  I'll  show  thee  a  prisoner  who  dreads  his  liberty. 

"  Is  it  not  better  my  dear  brother  Toby  (for  mark,  our 
appetites  are  but  diseases),  is  it  not  better  not  to  hunger  at  all, 
than  to  eat  ?  not  to  thirst,  than  to  take  physic  to  cure  it  ? 

"  Is  it  not  better  to  be  freed  from  cares  and  agues,  from  love 
and  melancholy,  and  the  other  hot  and  cold  fits  of  life,  than,  like 
a  galled  traveller,  who  comes  weary  to  his  inn,  to  be  bound  to 
begin  his  journey  afresh  ? 

"  There  is  no  terror,  brother  Toby,  in  its  looks,  but  what  it 
borrows  from  groans  and  convulsions,  and  the  blowing  of  noses 
and  the  wiping  away  of  tears  with  the  bottoms  of  curtains,  in  a 
dying  man's  room.  Strip  it  of  these,  What  is  it  ? "  "  It  is 
better  in  battle  than  in  bed,"  said  my  uncle  Toby.  "  Take  away 
its  hearses,  its  mutes,  and  its  mourning,  its  plumes,  scutcheons, 
and  other  mechanic  aids,  What   is  it  ?     Better  in  battle  ! "  con- 


2i6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


tinued  my  father,  smiling,  for  he  had  absolutely  forgot  my  brother 
Bobby ;  "  'tis  terrible  no  way,  for  consider,  brother  Toby,  when 
we  are,  death  is  not  ;  and  when  death  is,  we  are  not."  My  uncle 
Toby  laid  down  his  pipe  to  consider  the  proposition  :  my  father's 
eloquence  was  too  rapid  to  stay  for  any  man  ;  away  it  went,  and 
hurried  my  uncle  Toby's  ideas  along  with  it. 

(From  the  Same.) 


CORPORAL  TRIM  AND  THE  CURATE 

"  When  1  gave  him  the  toast,"  continued  the  corporal,  "  I  thought 
it  was  proper  to  tell  him  I  was  Captain  Shandy's  servant,  and 
that  your  honour  (though  a  stranger)  was  extremely  concerned 
for  his  father ;  and  that  if  there  was  anything  in  your  house  or 
cellar  ('  and  thou  mightest  have  added  my  purse  too,'  said  my 
uncle  Toby)  he  was  welcome  to  it.  He  made  a  very  low  bow 
(which  was  meant  to  your  honour),  but  no  answer  ;  for  his  heart 
was  full  ;  so  he  went  upstairs  with  the  toast.  '  1  warrant  you, 
my  dear,'  said  I,  as  I  opened  the  kitchen  door,  '  your  father  will 
be  well  again.'  Mr.  Yorick's  curate  was  smoking  a  pipe  by  the 
kitchen  fire  ;  but  said  not  a  word,  good  or  bad,  to  comfort  the 
youth.^I  thought  it  wrong,"  added  the  corporal. — "  I  think  so 
too,"  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

"  When  the  lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack  and  toast,  he 
felt  himself  a  little  revived,  and  sent  down  into  the  kitchen,  to  let 
me  know,  that,  in  about  ten  minutes,  he  should  be  glad  if  I 
would  step  upstairs. 

"  '  1  believe,'  said  the  landlord,  '  he  is  going  to  say  his  prayers  ; 
for  there  was  a  book  laid  upon  the  chair  by  his  bed-side,  and,  as 
1  shut  the  door,  1  saw  his  son  take  up  a  cushion.' 

" '  I  thought,'  said  the  curate,  '  that  you  gentleman  of  the 
army,  Mr.  Trim,  never  said  your  prayers  at  all.'  '  I  heard  the 
poor  gentleman  say  his  prayers  last  night,'  said  the  landlady  very 
devoutly,  '  and  with  my  own  ears,  or  I  could  not  have  believed 
it.'  '  Are  you  sure  of  it  ? '  replied  the  curate.  '  A  soldier,  an' 
please  your  reverence,'  said  I,  '  prays  as  often,  of  his  own 
accord,  as  a  parson  ;  and  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  king,  and 
for  his  own  life,  and  for  his  honour  too,  he  has  the  most  reason 
to  pray  to  God  of  any  one  in  the  whole  world.'"      "  It  was  well 


LAURENCE  STERNE  217 

said  of  thee,  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby.  "  '  But  when  a  soldier,' 
said  I,  'an'  please  your  reverence,  has  been  standing  for  twelve 
hours  together  in  the  trenches,  up  to  his  knees  in  cold  water,  or 
engaged,'  said  I,  '  for  months  together  in  long  and  dangerous 
marches  ;  harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day  ;  harassing  others 
to-morrow ;  detached  here ;  countermanded  there ;  resting  this 
night  out  upon  his  arms  ;  beat  up  in  his  shirt  the  next,  benumbed 
in  his  joints  ;  perhaps  without  straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on  ; 
must  say  his  prayers  how  and  it'hen  he  can  ;  I  believe,'  said  I, 
for  I  was  piqued,"  quoth  the  corporal,  "for  the  reputation  of 
the  army,  'I  believe,  an't  please  your  reverence,'  said  I,  'that 
when  a  soldier  gets  time  to  pray,  he  prays  as  heartily  as  a  parson 
— though  not  with  all  his  fuss  and  hypocrisy. '  " 

"Thou  should'st  not  have  said  that.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle 
Toby,  "  for  God  only  knows  who  is  a  hypocrite,  and  who  is  not. 
At  the  great  and  general  review  of  us  all,  corporal,  at  the  day  of 
judgment  (and  not  till  then)  it  will  be  seen  who  have  done  their 
duties  in  this  world,  and  who  have  not ;  and  we  shall  be  advanced. 
Trim,  accordingly."  "  I  hope  we  shall,"  said  Trim.  "  It  is  in 
the  Scripture,"  said  my  uncle  Toby  ;  "  and  1  will  show  it  thee 
to-morrow.  In  the  meantime  we  may  depend  upon  it,  Trim,  for 
our  comfort,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  "  that  God  Almighty  is  so 
good  and  just  a  governor  of  the  world,  that  if  we  have  but  done 
our  duties  in  it,  it  will  never  be  inquired  into  whether  we  have 
done  them  in  a  red  coat  or  a  black  one."  "  I  hope  not,"  said  the 
corporal.  "  But  go  on.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  "  with  thy 
story." 

(From  the  Same.) 


TRISTRAM  AND  THE  ASS 

'TwAS  by  a  poor  ass,  who  had  just  turned  in  with  a  couple  of 
large  panniers  upon  his  back,  to  collect  eleemosynary  turnip-tops 
and  cabbage  leaves  ;  and  stood  dubious,  with  his  two  fore  feet 
on  the  inside  of  the  threshold,  and  with  his  two  hinder  feet 
towards  the  street,  as  not  knowing  very  well  whether  he  was  to  go 
in  or  not. 

Now,  it  is  an  animal  (be  in  what  hurry  I   may)  I  cannot  bear 
to   strike  ;  there    is    a   patient   endurance   of  sufferings  wrote  so 


2i8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


unaffectedly  in  his  looks  and  carriage,  which  pleads  so  mightily 
for  him,  that  it  always  disarms  me  ;  and  to  that  degree,  that  I  do 
not  like  to  speak  unkindly  to  him  :  on  the  contrary,  meet  him 
where  I  will,  whether  in  town  or  country,  in  cart  or  under 
panniers, — whether  in  liberty  or  bondage,  I  have  ever  something 
civil  to  say  to  him  on  my  part ;  and,  as  one  word  begets  another 
(if  he  has  as  little  to  do  as  I)  I  generally  fall  into  conversation 
with  him  ;  and  surely  never  is  my  imagination  so  busy  as  in 
framing  his  responses  from  the  etchings  of  his  countenance, — and 
where  those  carryme  not  deep  enough, — in  flyingfrom  myown  heart 
into  his,  and  seeing  what  is  natural  for  an  ass  to  think, — as  well 
as  a  man  upon  the  occasion.  In  truth,  it  is  the  only  creature  of 
all  the  classes  of  beings  below  me,  with  whom  I  can  do  this  ;  for 
parrots,  jackdaws,  etc.,  I  never  exchange  a  word  with  them, — 
nor  with  apes,  etc.,  for  pretty  near  the  same  reason  ;  they  act  by 
rote,  as  the  others  speak  by  it,  and  equally  make  me  silent  :  nay, 
my  dog  and  my  cat,  though  I  value  them  both  (and,  for  my  dog, 
he  would  speak  if  he  could)  yet  somehow  or  other,  they  neither 
of  them  possess  the  talents  for  conversation  ;  I  can  make  nothing 
of  a  discourse  with  them  beyond  the  proposition,  the  reply,  and 
rejoinder,  which  terminated  my  father's  and  my  mother's  con- 
versations in  his  beds  of  justice  ; — and  those  uttered,  there's  an 
end  of  the  dialogue. 

But  with  an  ass,  I  can  commune  for  ever. 

Come,  honesty !  said  I,  seeing  it  was  impracticable  to  pass 
betwixt  him  and  the  gate,  art  thou  for  coming  in,  or  going  out  ? 

The  ass  twisted  his  head  round  to  look  up  the  street. 

Well,  replied  I,  we'll  wait  a  minute  for  thy  driver. 

He  turned  his  head  thoughtful  about,  and  looked  wistfully  the 
opposite  way. 

I  understand  thee  perfectly,  answered  I  ;  if  thou  takest  a  wrong 
step  in  this  affair,  he  will  cudgel  thee  to  death.  Well  !  a  minute 
is  but  a  minute,  and  if  it  saves  a  fellow-creature  a  drubbing,  it 
shall  not  be  set  down  as  ill-spent. 

He  was  eating  the  stem  of  an  artichoke  as  this  discourse  went 
on,  and  in  the  little  peevish  contentions  of  nature  betwixt  hunger 
and  unsavouriness,  had  dropped  it  out  of  his  mouth  half  a  dozen 
times,  and  picked  it  up  again.  God  help  thee,  Jack  !  said  I,  thou 
hast  a  bitter  breakfast  on't,  and  many  a  bitter  day's  labour,  and 
many  a  bitter  blow,  I  fear  for  its  wages  !  'tis  all — all  bitterness 
to  thee,  whatever  life  is  to  others  !     And  now  thy  mouth,  if  one 


LAURENCE  STERNE  219 

knew  the  truth  of  it,  is  as  bitter  I  dare  say  as  soot — (for  he  had 
cast  aside  the  stem),  and  thou  hast  not  a  friend  perhaps  in  all  this 
world,  that  will  give  thee  a  macaroon.  In  saying  this,  I  pulled 
out  a  paper  of  them,  which  I  had  just  purchased,  and  ga\'e  him 
one,  and  at  this  moment  that  I  am  telling  it,  my  heart  smites  me, 
that  there  was  more  of  pleasantry  in  the  conceit  of  seeing  how  an 
ass  would  eat  a  macaroon,  than  of  benevolence  in  giving  him  one, 
which  presided  in  the  act. 

When  the  ass  had  eaten  his  macaroon,  I  pressed  him  to  come 
in  ;  the  poor  beast  was  heavily  loaded,  his  legs  seemed  to  tremble 
under  him,  he  hung  rather  backwards  ;  and  as  I  pulled  at  his 
halter  it  broke  short  in  my  hand.  He  looked  up  pensive  in  my 
face — "Don't  thrash  me  with  it;  but,  if  you  will  you  may."  If 
I  do,  said  I,  I'll  be  d— d. 

The  word  was  but  one  half  of  it  pronounced,  like  the  Abbess 
of  Andonillet's — so  there  was  no  sin  in  it — when  a  person  coming 
in,  let  fall  a  thundering  bastinado  upon  the  poor  devil's  crupper, 
which  put  an  end  to  the  ceremony.  ("From  the  Same  \ 


A  FRANCISCAN   MONK 

The  monk,  as  I  judged  from  the  break  in  his  tonsure,  a  few 
scattered  white  hairs  upon  his  temples  being  all  that  remained  of 
it,  might  be  about  seventy  ;  but,  from  his  eyes,  and  that  sort  of 
fire  which  was  in  them,  which  seemed  more  tempered  by  courtesy 
than  years,  could  be  no  more  than  sixty.  Truth  might  lie  between, 
— he  was  certainly  sixty-five  ;  and  the  general  air  of  his  counten- 
ance, notwithstanding  something  seemed  to  have  been  planting 
wrinkles  in  it  before  their  time,  agreed  to  the  account. 

It  was  one  of  those  heads  which  Guido  has  often  painted — 
mild,  pale,  penetrating,  free  from  all  commonplace  ideas  of  fat 
contented  ignorance  looking  downwards  upon  the  earth — it  looked 
forwards  ;  but  looked  as  if  it  looked  at  something  beyond  this 
world.  How  one  of  his  order  came  by  it,  heaven  above  who  let 
it  fall  upon  a  monk's  shoulders  best  knows  :  but  it  would  have 
suited  a  Brahmin,  and  had  I  met  it  upon  the  plains  of  Hindoostan, 
I  had  reverenced  it. 

The  rest  of  his  outline  may  be  given  in  a  few  strokes  ;  one 
might  put  it  into  the  hands  of  any  one  to  design,  for  'twas  neither 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


elegant  or  otherwise,  but  as  character  and  expression  made  it  so  : 
it  was  a  thin  spare  form,  something  above  the  common  size,  if  it 
lost  not  the  distinction  by  a  bend  forward  in  the  figure, — but  it  was 
the  attitude  of  entreaty  ;  and  as  it  now  stands  presented  to  my 
imagination,  it  gained  more  than  it  lost  by  it. 

When  he  had  entered  the  room  three  paces  he  stood  still,  and 
laying  his  left  hand  upon  his  breast  (a  slender  white  staff  with 
which  he  journeyed  being  in  his  right) — when  I  had  got  close  up 
to  him,  he  introduced  himself  with  the  little  story  of  the  wants 
of  his  convent,  and  the  poverty  of  his  order  ;  and  did  it  with  so 
simple  a  grace  and  such  an  air  of  deprecation  was  there  in  the 
whole  cast  of  his  look  and  figure,  I  was  bewitched  not  to  have 
been  struck  with  it. 

A  better  reason  was,  I  had  predetermined  not  to  give  him  a 
single  sou.  (From  A  Smtimciital  JoKrncy.) 


THOMAS   GRAY 


[Gray  was  born  in  Cornhill,  London,  20th  December  1716,  the  son  of  a 
money  scrivener  (a  kind  of  solicitor).  Thanks  to  his  mother  and  her  brothers — 
his  father  was  not  a  very  satisfactory  person — he  was  educated  at  Eton  and  then 
at  Cambridge.  He  left  the  University,  with  whose  then  prevailing  study  of 
mathematics  he  had  little  or  no  sympathy,  without  taking  a  degree,  in 
September  1738.  In  the  following  year  he  accepted  his  friend  Horace 
Walpole's  invitation  to  travel  abroad  with  him  ;  and  for  over  two  years  cul- 
tivated and  matured  himself  by  visiting  places  and  people  of  interest  in  P'rance 
and  in  Italy.  In  the  winter  of  1742  he  drifted  back  to  Cambridge,  the  study  of 
the  law,  which  had  been  proposed  for  his  profession,  not  attracting  him, 
and  nothing  else  recommending  itself.  His  private  means  seem  to  have  been 
sufficient  for  his  wants  ;  and  Cambridge,  though  he  was  but  little  in  harmony 
with  the  society  and  tone  there,  was  his  home  for  all  his  remaining  years, 
though  he  enjoyed  frequent  and  long  absences,  spent  in  visiting  his  mother 
so  long  as  she  lived  (she  died  1753),  and  in  tours  about  the  more  picturesque 
parts  of  England  and  Scotland,  which  indeed  were  the  great  events  and 
delights  of  his  singularly  quiet  life.  His  removal  from  Peterhouse  to  Pem- 
broke in  1765  "  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  era  in  a  life  so  barren  of 
events  as  mine."  He  studied  much  and  very  various  subjects, — the  classics, 
notably  those  of  Greece,  Italian  literature,  old  English  poetry,  architec- 
ture, zoology,  botany,  history,  music, — and  became  a  highly  accomplished 
man.  But  for  various  reasons  he  wrote  very  little  poetry,  and  not  much 
formal  prose  e.xcept  his  Letters,  though  he  left  behind  large  collections  of  notes. 
To  use  his  own  phrase,  he  was  "  but  a  shrimp  of  an  author."  In  1768  he  was 
appointed  professor  of  modern  history  ;  but,  though  he  drew  up  a  plan  for 
an  inaugural  address,  and  also  some  rules  concerning  a  course  in  modern 
history,  he  never  in  fact  lectured.  He  was  taken  ill  in  his  College  Hall  on 
the  24th  of  July,  and  died  on  the  30th,  1771.] 

"In  Gray's  Commonplace  Books  at  Pembroke  College  there 
is  much  interesting  matter,"  says  Dr.  Bradshaw  {Aldhie  Edition 
of  Gray's  Poetical  Works,  ed.  1891),  "  and  many  notes  and  essays 
that  have  never  been  printed,"  though  Mr.  Gosse  has  drawn  from 
them  in  his  Works  of  Gray  in  Prose  and  Verse.  But  the  prose 
writings  by  which  Gray  is  best  known,  and  deserves  to  be  best 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


known,  the  contents  of  his  MSS.  being  for  the  most  part  of  the 
nature  of  notes  and  fragments,  are  certainly  his  Letters. 

Letter-writing  was  an  art  carefully  and  assiduously  cultivated 
in  the  last  century,  as  never  before,  and  never  comparably 
since.  In  many  instances  beyond  doubt  a  correspondent  fully 
entertained  the  idea  of  future  publication.  He  wrote  consciously 
for  the  press,  and  not  only  for  the  private  perusal  of  his  friend. 
In  any  case  he  would  be  assured  that  generally  what  he  wrote 
would  be  read,  not  only  by  his  friend,  but  by  his  friend's  circle. 
Hence  special  pains  were  taken  with  this  kind  of  composition, 
and  it  became  a  branch  of  literature.  Thus  a  habit  of  epistolary 
care  and  finish  was  formed  ;  and  a  certain  ease  and  charm  marks 
even  the  most  ordinary  communications.  Now,  if  such  attention 
to  style  was  common,  as  it  was,  we  may  be  sure  it  is  to  be  found 
in  a  high  degree  in  Gray's  correspondence.  A  man  so  critical 
and  fastidious  as  Gray  could  indeed  do  nothing  carelessly  and 
like  a  sloven.  The  idea  of  perfection  was  ever  before  his  eyes. 
Even  his  handwriting  was  significant  in  this  respect.  "  I  have 
seen  and  transcribed  many  and  many  a  page  of  it,"  says  Mr.  Torry, 
in  his  interesting  volume  entitled  Gray  and  his  Friends  ;  "but  I 
do  not  recollect  to  have  noticed  a  single  carelessly  written  word, 
or  even  a  letter.  The  mere  sight  of  it  suggests  refinement,  order, 
and  infinite  pains."  Lady  Jane  Grey,  in  a  well-known  anecdote 
of  her  given  by  Ascham,  complains  that  whatever  she  had  to  do 
before  her  father  or  mother — whether  to  "  speak  or  keep  silence, 
sit,  stand,  or  go,  eat,  drink,  be  merry  or  sad,  be  sewing,  playing, 
dancing,  or  doing  anything  else" — she  was  expected  to  do  it  "as 
it  were,  in  such  weight,  measure,  and  number,  even  so  perfectly, 
as  God  made  the  world,"  or  else  she  had  a  very  bad  time,  being 
"sharplytaunted"  and"cruellythreatened"  and  pinched  and  nipped 
and  otherwise  tortured.  Gray  was  scarcely  less  exacting  and 
stern  towards  himself  than  those  austere  parents  in  the  old  house 
in  Bradgate  Park  towards  their  child.  He  was  one  of  the  severest 
of  self-critics.  Was  ever  any  other  poet  so  remorseless  with  himself? 
Those  stanzas  omitted  from  the  Elegy  written  in  a  Coutitry  ChnrcJi- 
vard  we  believe  Gray's  taste  was  sound  and  true  in  excising  ;  still 
they  are  in  themselves  such  as  perhaps  no  other  author  would  have 
had  the  heart  to  excise.  And  yet  both  in  his  poetry  and,  what 
now  more  closely  concerns  us,  in  his  prose,  he  exhibits  the  art  of 
concealing  his  art.  We  feel  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  a  most 
finished   artist,   but  wc    do  not  see   him  mixing   his   colours,   or 


THOMAS  GRAY  223 


fingering  his  brushes.  We  enjoy  the  effect  without  having  thrust 
upon  our  notice  the  process  or  processes  by  which  it  has  been 
produced.  In  his  Letters  the  habit  of  a  refined  and  poHshed 
manner  has  become  second  nature.  He  writes  hke  a  scholar, 
but  without  stiffness  or  effort.  He  is  classical,  but  never  pedantic. 
In  addition  to  all  the  culture  that  so  eminently  distinguished 
Gray,  he  possessed  natural  gifts  without  which  all  his  culture  would 
have  done  little  to  endear  him  to  the  general  reader.  He  had  a 
genuine  vein  of  humour,  which  not  only  prevents  his  being  dull,  but 
makes  him  at  times  highly  entertaining.  He  had  a  keen  sense 
of  the  beauty  of  landscape,  and  one  of  his  greatest  pleasures  was 
to  gaze  upon  it  and  to  describe  it.  He  was  Wordsworthian  before 
Wordsworth  was  born.  Lastly,  though  reserved  and  seemingly 
dry  and  cynical,  he  was  a  man  of  the  tenderest  affections.  He 
does  not  wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve ;  but  it  would  be  a  gross 
mistake  to  conclude  because  he  does  not  so  wear  it,  that  he  had 
none  to  wear.  "  SiDit  lacriince  fcrian  et  mc/ifou  tnorfalia  iajigient" 
was  a  saying  he  felt  deeply.  His  intimate  friend  West  died  in 
1742  ;  but  we  are  told  that  all  the  rest  of  his  life  he  never 
heard  his  name  mentioned  without  a  change  of  countenance — 
without  a  thrill  of  pain.  In  the  Elegy,  begun  when  the  sorrow 
of  that  bereavement  was  still  fresh,  he  writes  of  himself — 

"  He  gained  from  Heaven — 'twas  all  he  wished — a  friend  ;  " 

and  this  gain  of  "  all  he  wished  "  was  in  one  sense  never  lost  ;  it 
was  a  blessed  experience  that  was  never  forgotten,  but  to  the  end 
saved  him  from  the  dangers  of  self-absorption  and  misanthropy. 

And  so  he  happily  remained  capable  of  forming  fresh  friend- 
ships. Not  only,  to  use  his  own  exquisite  words,  is  it  "  the  parting 
soul"  that  "on  some  fond  breast  relies,"  but  the  soul  throughout 
its  period  of  embodiment.  And  (iray  must  needs  have  his 
confidants,  to  whom  he  could  unbosom  himself  in  prose  at  least, 
and  speak  of  the  high  enjoyments  he  derived  both  from  nature 
and  art.  His  mother  and  father.  West,  Horace  Walpole,  Ashton, 
Wharton,  Mason,  Norton,  Nicholls — all  these  and  others,  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree  of  frankness  and  fulness,  this  Cambridge 
recluse  admits  to  a  share  of  his  thoughts  and  observations. 

And  of  thoughts  and  observations  there  was  not  any  lack, 
however  quiet  and  retired  his  life,  however  "  far  from  the  madding 
crowd."  At  Cambridge  his  books  were  his  world,  and  a  world 
he  keenly  explored.      In  the  summer  he  surrendered  himself  to 


224  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  beauties  of  natural  scenery.  He  was  the  earliest  annual 
tourist,  in  this  respect  as  in  many  others  anticipating  the  taste 
of  a  coming  age.  These  wanderings  in  the  more  picturesque 
parts  of  the  country,  often  companionless,  became  a  passion  with 
him  ;  and  it  was  a  real  relief  to  detail  them  to  an  appreciative 
friend  with  a  faithful  and  loving  pen  that  was  also  exquisitely 
skilful  and  graphic. 

John  W.  Hales. 


TO  GRASMERE 

%th  October  1769. 

Bid  farewell  to  Keswick  and  took  the  Ambleside  road  in  a  gloomy 
morning  ;  wind  east  and  afterwards  north-east ;  about  two  miles 
from  the  town  mounted  an  eminence  called  Castle  Rigg,  and  the 
sun  breaking  out  discovered  the  most  beautiful  view  I  have  yet 
seen  of  the  whole  valley  behind  me,  the  two  lakes,  the  river,  the 
mountain,  all  in  their  glory  !  had  almost  a  mind  to  have  gone 
back  again.  The  road  in  some  little  patches  is  not  completed, 
but  good  country  road,  through  sound,  but  narrow  and  stony 
lanes,  very  safe  in  broad  daylight.  This  is  the  case  about 
Causeway-foot,  and  among  Naddle-fells  to  Lanthwaite.  The  vale 
you  go  in  has  little  breadth,  the  mountains  are  vast  and  rocky, 
the  fields  little  and  poor,  and  the  inhabitants  are  now  making- 
hay,  and  see  not  the  sun  by  two  hours  in  a  day  so  long  as  at 
Keswick.  Came  to  the  foot  of  Helvellyn,  along  which  runs  an 
excellent  road,  looking  down  from  a  little  height  on  Lee's  water, 
(called  also  Thirl-meer  or  Wiborn-water)  and  soon  descending  on 
its  margin.  The  lake  from  its  depth  looks  black  (though  really 
as  clear  as  glass),  and  from  the  gloom  of  the  vast  crags,  that 
scowl  over  it :  it  is  narrow  and  about  three  miles  long,  resembling 
a  river  in  its  course  ;  little  shining  torrents  hurry  down  the  rocks 
to  join  it,  with  not  a  bush  to  overshadow  them,  or  cover  their 
march  :  all  is  rock  and  loose  stones  up  to  the  very  brow,  which 
lies  so  near  your  way,  that  not  above  half  the  height  of  Helvellyn 
can  be  seen. 

Passed  by  the  little  chapel  of  Wiborn,  out  of  which  the 
Sunday  congregation  were  then  issuing.  Past  a  beck  near 
Dunmailraise  and  entered  Westmoreland  a  second  time,  now 
begin  to  see  Helm-crag,  distinguished  from  its  rugged  neighbours 
not  so  much  by  its  height,  as  by  the  strange  broken  outline  of  its 
top,  like  some  gigantic  building  demolished,  and  the  stones  that 
composed  it  flung  across  each  other  in  wild  confusion.     Just  be- 

vor.  IV  Q 


226  ENGLISH  PROSE 


yond  it  opens  one  of  the  sweetest  landscapes  that  art  ever 
attempted  to  imitate.  The  bosom  of  the  mountains  spreading 
here  into  a  broad  bason  discovers  in  the  midst  Grasmere-water, 
its  margin  is  hollowed  into  small  bays  with  ^bold  eminences : 
some  of  them  rocks,  some  of  soft  turf  that  half  conceal  and  vary 
the  figure  of  the  little  lake  they  command.  From  the  shore  a 
low  promontory  pushes  itself  far  into  the  water,  and  on  it  stands 
a  white  village  with  the  parish  church  rising  in  the  midst  of  it, 
hanging  enclosures,  corn-fields,  and  meadows  green  as  an  emerald, 
with  their  trees  and  hedges  and  cattle,  fill  up  the  whole  space 
from  the  edge  of  the  water.  Just  opposite  to  you  is  a  large 
farm-house,  at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  smooth  lawn  embosomed  in 
old  woods,  which  climb  half  way  up  the  mountain's  side,  and 
discover  above  them  a  broken  line  of  crags,  that  crown  the  scene. 
Not  a  single  red  tile,  no  flaming  gentleman's  house,  or  garden 
walls  break  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  little  unsuspected  paradise, 
but  all  is  peace,  rusticity,  and  happy  poverty  in  its  neatest,  most 
becoming'  attire. 

The  road  winds  here  over  Grasmere-hill,  whose  rocks  soon 
conceal  the  water  from  your  sight,  yet  it  is  continued  along 
behind  them,  and  contracting  itself  to  a  river  communicates  with 
Ridale-water,  another  small  lake  but  of  inferior  size  and  beauty  ; 
it  seems  shallow  too,  for  large  patches  of  reeds  appear  pretty  far 
within  it.  Into  this  vale  the  road  descends  :  on  the  opposite 
banks  large  and  ancient  woods  mount  up  the  hills,  and  just  to  the 
left  of  our  way  stands  Ridale-hall,  the  family  seat  of  Sir  Michael 
Fleming,  but  now  a  farm-house,  a  large  old-fashioned  fabric 
surrounded  with  wood,  and  not  much  too  good  for  its  present 
destination.  Sir  Michael  is  now  on  his  travels,  and  all  this 
timber  far  and  wide  belongs  to  him,  I  tremble  for  it  when  he 
returns.  Near  the  house  rises  a  huge  crag  called  Ridale-head, 
which  is  said  to  command  a  full  view  of  Wynander-mere,  and  I 
doubt  it  not,  for  within  a  mile  that  great  lake  is  visible  even  from 
the  road.  As  for  going  up  the  crag,  one  might  as  well  go  up 
Skiddaw. 

Came  to  Ambleside  eighteen  miles  from  Keswick,  meaning 
to  lie  there,  but  on  looking  into  the  best  bed-chamber,  dark  and 
damp  as  a  cellar,  grew  delicate,  g'ave  up  Wynander-mere  in 
despair,  and  resolved  I  would  go  on  to  Kendal  directly,  fourteen 
miles  farther :  the  road  in  general,  fine  turnpike,  but  some  parts 
(about  three  miles  in  all)  not  made,  yet  without  danger. 


THOMAS  GRA  Y  227 


Unexpectedly  was  well  rewarded  for  my  detennination.  The 
afternoon  was  fine,  and  the  road  for  full  five  miles  runs  along  the 
side  of  Wynander-mere,  with  delicious  views  across  it,  and 
almost  from  one  end  to  the  other  :  it  is  ten  miles  in  length  and 
at  most  a  mile  over,  resembling  the  course  of  some  vast  and 
magnificent  river,  but  no  flat  marshy  grounds,  no  osier  beds,  or 
patches  of  scrubby  plantation  on  its  banks :  at  the  head  two 
valleys  open  among  the  mountains,  one,  that  by  which  we  came 
down,  the  other  Langsledale  in  which  Wrynose  and  Hard -knot, 
two  great  mountains,  rise  above  the  rest.  From  thence  the  fells 
visibly  sink  and  soften  along  its  sides,  sometimes  they  run  into  it, 
(but  with  a  gentle  declivity)  in  their  own  dark  and  natural  com- 
plexion, oftener  they  are  green  and  cultivated,  with  farms  inter- 
spersed, and  round  eminences  on  the  border  covered  with  trees  : 
towards  the  South  it  seems  to  break  into  larger  bays  with  several 
islands  and  a  wider  extent  of  cultivation  :  the  way  rises  continually 
till  at  a  place  called  Onesthead  it  turns  south-east,  losing  sight  of 
the  water.  Passed  by  Ing's  chapel  and  Stavely,  but  I  can  say 
no  farther  for  the  dusk  of  the  evening  coming  on  I  entered  Kendal 
almost  in  the  dark,  and  could  distinguish  only  a  shadow  of  the 
castle  on  a  hill,  and  tenter  grounds  spread  far  and  wide  round 
the  town,  which  I  mistook  for  houses.  My  inn  promised  sadly, 
having  two  wooden  galleries  (like  Scotland)  in  front  of  it.  It 
was  indeed  an  old  ill-contrived  house,  but  kept  by  civil,  sensible 
people,   so   I  stayed   two  nights  with   them,  and   fared  and   slept 


very  comfortably. 


{Yxmw  Journal  ill  tJic  Lukes.) 


P,Y  INGLEBOROUGH  TO  GORDALE  SCAR 

October  12  .  .  .  Set  out  for  Settle  by  a  fine  turn]jikp  road, 
29  miles. 

Rich  and  beautiful  enclosed  country,  diversified  with  frequent 
villages  and  churches,  very  uneven  ground,  and  on  the  left  the 
river  Lune  winding  in  a  deep  valley,  its  hanging  banks  clothed 
with  fine  woods,  through  which  you  catch  long  reaches  of  the 
water  as  the  road  winds  about  at  a  considerable  height  above  it. 
Passed  the  park  (Hon.  Mr.  CTifTord's,  a  Catholic)  in  the  most 
picturesque  part  of  the  way.      The  grounds  between  him  and  the 


228  ENGLISH  PROSE 


river  are  indeed  charming  :  the  house  is  ordinary,  and  the  park 
nothing  but  a  rocky  fell  scattered  over  with  ancient  hawthorns. 
Came  to  Hornby,  a  little  town  on  the  river  Wanning,  over  which 
a  handsome  bridge  is  now  in  building.  The  castle,  in  a  lordly 
situation,  attracted  me,  so  I  walked  up  the  hill  to  it.  First 
presents  itself  a  large  but  ordinary  white  gentleman's  house, 
sashed,  behind  it  rises  the  ancient  keep  built  by  Edward  Stanley, 
Lord  Monteagle,  in  Henry  the  eighth's  time.  It  is  now  a  shell 
only,  though  rafters  are  laid  within  it  as  for  flooring.  I  went  up 
a  winding  stone  staircase  in  one  corner  to  the  leads,  and  at  the 
angle  is  a  single  hexagon  watch-tower,  rising  some  feet  higher, 
fitted  up  in  the  taste  of  a  modern  Foot  with  sash-windows  in  gilt 
frames,  and  a  stucco  cupola,  and  on  the  top  a  vast  gilt  eagle,  by 
Mr.  Charteris,  the  present  possessor.  But  he  has  not  lived  here 
since  the  year  1 745,  when  the  people  of  Lancaster  insulted  him,  threw 
stones  into  his  coach,  and  almost  made  his  wife  (Lady  Catherine 
Gordon)  miscarr)\  Since  that  he  has  built  a  great  ugly  house  of 
red  stone  (thank  God  it  is  not  in  England)  near  Haddington, 
which  I  remember  to  have  passed  by.  He  is  the  second  son  of 
the  Earl  of  Wemyss,  and  brother  to  the  Lord  Elcho  ;  grandson 
to  Colonel  Charteris,  whose  name  he  bears.  From  the  leads  of 
the  tower  there  is  a  fine  view  of  the  countr}'  round,  and  much 
wood  near  the  castle.  Ingleborough,  which  I  had  seen  before 
distinctly  at  Lancaster,  to  north-east,  was  now  completely 
wrapped  in  clouds,  all  but  its  summit,  which  might  have  been 
easily  mistaken  for  a  long  black  cloud  too,  fraught  with  an 
approaching  storm.  Now  our  road  began  gradually  to  mount 
towards  the  Appennine,  the  trees  growing  less  and  thinner  of 
leaves,  till  we  came  to  Ingleton,  18  miles  :  It  is  a  pretty  village, 
situated  very  high  and  yet  in  a  valley  at  the  foot  of  that  huge  creature 
of  God  Ingleborough.  Two  torrents  cross  it  with  great  stones 
rolled  along  their  bed  instead  of  water,  over  them  are  two 
handsome  arches  flung.  Here  at  a  little  ale-house,  where  Sir 
Bellingham  Graham,  and  Mr.  Parker,  lord  of  the  manor  (one 
of  them  six  feet  and  a  half  high,  and  the  other  as  much  in 
breadth),  came  to  dine.  The  nipping  air  (though  the  afternoon 
was  growing  very  bright)  now  taught  us  we  were  in  Craven  ; 
the  road  was  all  up  and  down  (though  nowhere  very  steep),  to 
the  left  were  mountain-tops,  to  the  right  a  wide  valley  (all  enclosed 
ground),  and  beyond  it  high  hills  again.  In  approaching  Settle, 
the  crags  on  the  left  draw  nearer  to  our  way  ;  till  we  ascended 


THOMAS  GRAY  229 


Brunton-brow,  into  a  cheerful  valley  (though  thin  of  trees)  to 
Gigglesvvick,  a  village  with  a  small  piece  of  water  by  its  side, 
covered  over  with  coots.  Near  it  a  church  which  belongs  also  to 
Settle,  and  half  a  mile  further,  having  passed  the  Ribble  over  a 
bridge,  arrived  at  Settle.  It  is  a  small  market-town  standing 
directly  under  a  rocky  fell,  there  are  not  a  dozen  good-looking 
houses,  the  rest  are  all  old  and  low,  with  little  wooden  porticoes 
in  front.  My  inn  pleased  me  much  (though  small)  for  the 
neatness  and  civility  of  the  good  woman  that  kept  it,  so  I  lay 
there  two  nights,  and  went 

October  13,  to  visit  Gordale-scar.  Wind  N.E.  :  day  gloomy 
and  cold.  It  lay  but  six  miles  from  Settle,  but  that  way  was 
directly  over  a  fell,  and  it  might  rain,  so  I  went  round  in  a  chaise 
the  only  way  one  could  get  near  it  in  a  carriage,  which  made  it 
full  thirteen  miles  ;  and  half  of  it  such  a  road  !  but  I  got  safe 
over  it  so  there's  an  end,  and  came  to  Mallhem  (pronounce  it 
Maum)  a  village  in  the  bosom  of  the  mountains  seated  in  a  wild 
and  dreary  valley  :  from  thence  I  was  to  walk  a  mile  over  very 
rough  ground.  A  torrent  rattling  along  on  the  left  hand.  On 
the  cliffs  above  hung'^  a  few  goats  ;  one  of  them  danced  and 
sci^atched  an  ear  with  its  hind  foot  in-  a  place  where  I  would  not 
have  stood  stock  still  for  all  beneath  the  moon.  As  I  advanced 
the  crags  seemed  to  close  in,  but  discovered  a  narrow  entrance 
turning  to  the  left  between  them.  I  followed  my  guide  a  few 
paces,  and  lo,  the  hills  opened  again  into  no  large  space,  and 
then  all  farther  away  is  barred  by  a  stream,  that  at  the  height  of 
above  50  feet  gushes  from  a  hole  in  the  rock,  and,  spreading  in 
large  sheets  over  its  broken  front,  dashes  from  steep  to  steep 
and  then  rattles  away  in  a  torrent  down  the  valley.  The  rock  on 
the  left  rises  perpendicular  with  stubbed  yew-trees  and  shrubs 
staring  from  its  side  to  the  height  of  at  least  300  feet  ;  but  those 
are  not  the  things  :  it  is  that  to  the  right  under  which  you  stand 
to  see  the  fall  that  forms  the  principal  horror  of  the  place. 
From  its  very  base  it  begins  to  slope  forwards  over  you  in  one 
block  and  solid  mass  without  any  crevice  in  its  surface,  and 
overshadows  half  the  area  below  with  its  dreadful  canopy. 
When  I  stood  at  (I  believe)  full  four  yards  distance  from  its  foot,  the 
drops  which  perpetually  distil  from  its  brow,  fell  on  my  head,  and 
in  one  part  of  the  top  more  exposed  to  the  weather  there  are 
loose  stones  that  hang  in  the  air  and  threaten  visibly  some  idle 
spectator  with  instant  destruction.      It  is  safer  to  shelter  yourself 


230  ENGLISH  PROSE 


close  to  its  bottom,  and  trust  to  the  mercy  of  that  enormous  mass 
which  nothing  but  an  earthquake  can  stir.  The  gloomy  uncom- 
fortable day  well  suited  the  savage  aspect  of  the  place,  and  made 
it  still  more  formidable. 

I  stayed  there  (not  without  shuddering)  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  thought  my  trouble  richly  paid,  for  the  impression  will  last 
for  life.  At  the  alehouse  where  I  dined  in  Maicm,  Vivares  the 
landscape  painter  had  lodged  for  a  week  or  more  ;  Smith  and 
Bellers  had  also  been  there  ;  and  two  prints  of  Gordale  have 
been  engraved  by  them.  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^ 


NETLEY  ABBEY 

To  the  Rev.  N.  Nichols. 

Monday,  iqth  November  1764. 

Sir — I  received  your  letter  at  Southampton,  and  as  I  would  wish 
to  treat  everybody  according  to  their  own  rule  and  measure  of 
good-breeding,  have  against  my  inclination  waited  till  now  before 
I  answered  it,  purely  out  of  fear  and  respect  and  an  ingenuous 
diffidence  of  my  own  abilities.  If  you  will  not  take  this  as  an 
excuse,  accept  it  at  least  as  a  well-turned  period,  which  is  always 
my  principal  concern. 

So  I  proceed  to  tell  you,  that  my  health  is  much  improved 
by  the  sea  ;  not  that  I  drank  it,  or  bathed  in  it,  as  the  common 
people  do.  No  !  I  only  walked  by  it  and  looked  upon  it.  The 
climate  is  remarkably  mild,  even  in  October  and  November. 
No  snow  has  been  seen  to  lie  there  for  these  thirty  years  past, 
the  myrtles  grow  in  the  ground  against  the  houses,  and  Guernsey 
lilies  bloom  in  every  window.  The  town,  clean  and  well  built, 
surrounded  by  its  old  stone  walls,  with  their  towers  and  gateways, 
stands  at  the  point  of  a  peninsula,  and  opens  full  south  to  an  arm 
of  the  sea,  which  having  formed  two  beautiful  bays  on  each 
hand  of  it,  stretches  away  in  direct  view  till  it  joins  the  British 
Channel.  It  is  skirted  on  either  side  with  gently  rising  grounds, 
clothed  with  thick  wood  ;  and  directly  across  its  mouth  rise  the 
high  lands  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  at  distance,  but  distinctly  seen. 
In  the  bosom  of  the  woods  (concealed  from  profane  eyes)  lie  hid 
the  ruins  of  Netley  Abbey.  There  may  be  richer  and  greater 
houses  of  religion,  but  the  abbot  is  content  with  his  situation. 
See  there,  at  the  top  of  that  hanging  meadow  under  the  shade  of 


THOMAS  GRAY  231 


those  old  trees  that  bend  into  half  a  circle  about  it,  he  is  walking 
slowly  (good  man  ! )  and  bidding  his  beads  for  the  souls  of  his 
benefactors  interred  in  that  venerable  pile  that  lies  beneath  him. 
Beyond  it  (the  meadow  still  descending)  nods  a  thicket  of  oaks, 
that  mask  the  building  and  have  excluded  a  view  too  garish  and 
too  luxuriant  for  a  holy  eye  :  only,  on  either  hand,  they  leave  an 
opening  to  the  blue  glittering  sea.  Did  not  you  observe  how,  as 
that  white  sail  shot  by  and  was  lost,  he  turned  and  crossed 
himself  to  drive  the  tempter  from  hiin  that  had  thrown  distraction 
in  his  way.  I  should  tell  you,  that  the  ferryman  who  rowed  me, 
a  lusty  young  fellow,  told  me  that  he  would  not,  for  all  the  world, 
pass  a  night  at  the  Abbey  (there  were  such  things  seen  near  it), 
though  there  was  a  power  of  money  hid  there.  From  thence  1 
went  to  Salisbury,  Wilton,  and  Stonehenge  ;  but  of  these  things  1 
say  no  more,  they  will  be  published  at  the  University  press. 

(From  the  Letters.') 


A    SUNRISE 

I  MUST  not  close  my  letter  without  giving  you  one  principal 
event  of  my  history,  which  was,  that  (in  the  course  of  my  late 
tour)  I  set  out  one  morning  before  five  o'clock,  the  moon  shining 
through  a  dark  and  misty  autumnal  air,  and  got  to  the  sea-coast 
time  enough  to  be  at  the  sun's  levee. 

I  saw  the  clouds  and  dark  vapours  open  gradually  to  right 
and  left,  rolling  over  one  another  in  great  smoky  wreaths,  and 
the  tide  (as  it  flowed  gently  in  upon  the  sands)  first  whitening, 
then  slightly  tinged  with  gold  and  blue  ;  and  all  at  once  a  little 
line  of  insufferable  brightness  that  (before  I  can  write  these  five 
words)  was  grown  to  half  an  orb,  and  now  to  a  whole  one,  too 
glorious  to  be  distinctly  seen.  It  is  very  odd  it  makes  no  figure 
on  paper,  yet  I  shall  remember  it  as  long  as  the  sun,  or  at  least 
as  long  as  I  endure.  I  wonder  whether  anybody  ever  saw  it 
before,  I  hardly  believe  it.  (From  the  Same.) 


HORA 


[The  works  of  Horace  Walpole,  Earl  W  Orford  (1717-1797).  edited 
by  Miss  Berry,  were  published  in  5  vols.  410.  in  1798.  In  the  author's 
lifetime  were  printed  .Kd^n/TatpslJAincv,  1747,  1752,  papers  in  the  World, 
1753  ;    Letter  from    XolHo,    a    clurt^ie    Philosopher,    1757  ;     Catalogue  of 


A\ 


the  Royal  and  Nx 
and  Verse,  1758;  Aii 
of  Engravers,  and  The 
and  Reig?i  of  King  Ki 
Tragedy,  1768  ;  Hierogi 
The  Memoirs  of  the  Last 


■lyih 


thors  of  LnglaThij   1758  ;    Fugitive  Pieces  in  Prose 
tes  of  Painting  in  England,  1762-1771  ;    Catalogue 
of  ptranto,  1765  ;   Historic  Doubts  dn  the  Life 
^liird,    1768  ;    The  Mys?»riiiu^s  ]j\Iother,  A 
17^5  ;  Essay  o>i  Modern  Gan 
l^ars^of  Ceohff  //.  (begun  1751)  werfe 


1822  ;    the  Memoirs  of  tae  foirpwingTei^Trf  begun  in  1766,    finibly;d  in  1772, 


came  out  in  1845  and  ^S59.  The  Rcminiscmces,  written  in  1788  for  Miss 
Berry  and  her  sister,  were  published  among.<!ie  collected  works  in  1798.  The 
fifth  volume  of  this  edition  contarS^s  lettsrs,^  va^lb^s  persons  :  others  were 
published  in  1818  (to  George  Montag\and  othS=5)/Hi_i^fsu  (to  Lor  1  Hereford), 
and  in  1833  (to  Sir  Horace  Mann).  7\=^llect^d  editidnVas  iss  led  in  1840. 
The  publication  of  further  correspondence~-wrtli  Sir  Horace  Mainn  in  1843, 
and  of  Letters  to  the  Countess  of  Ossory  in  1818,  and  the  Rev.  Av.  Mason  in 
1851,  led  to  a  fuller  collection  by  Mr.  Peter  CmmHislaaj21_ifl-*^57>  which  has 
not  yet  been  superseded.  ] 


"Unhealthy  and  disorganised  mind,"  "a  bundle  of  whims 
and  affectations,"  "  mask  within  mask  "  ;  these  are  the  phrases  that 
go  to  make  up  the  popular  estimate  of  a  writer  who  was  distin- 
guished by  the  sincerity  of  his  taste  and  judgment,  and  by  the 
quickness  and  truth  of  his  response  to  all  impressions.  Horace 
Walpole  wrote  and  thought  e.xactly  as  he  pleased  ;  his  letters  are 
the  expression,  direct  and  clear,  of  a  mind  that  could  not  condescend 
to  dull  its  reflections  by  any  compromise  about  the  values  of 
things,  or  any  concession  to  opinion.  He  never  tampered  with 
his  instinctive  appreciation  of  anything.  Whether  his  judgments 
are  sound  in  themselves  is  a  cjuestion  of  small  importance  in  com- 
parison with  his  virtue  of  self-respect  and  self-restraint.  It  is 
because  he  had  a  mind  of  his  own  and  would  not  pretend  to  like 


234  ENGLISH  PROSE 


what   he  could  not  hke,   that   he  has  been  pointed   out    by   the 
literary  demagogue. 

In  the  matter  of  his  opinions  he  was  less  exceptional  or  eccen- 
tric than  he  has  sometimes  been  made  to  appear.  While  his 
discrimination  was  keener,  and  his  sense  more  delicate  than  in 
most  people,  he  did  not  set  himself  to  disagree  with  popular 
opinion.  His  confidence  in  himself  was  so  secure  that  even  to 
find  himself  in  agreement  with  the  vulgar  gave  him  no  uneasiness. 
His  opinions  are  not  those  of  a  fantastic  or  effeminate  recluse. 
No  man  was  ever  more  alive  to  the  political  interests  of  that 
century  ;  he  is  the  historian  of  the  inner  life  of  Parliament  ;  the 
commentator  day  by  day  on  the  news  of  battles  in  Germany, 
America,  and  India.  From  the  day  when  Sir  Robert  Walpole, 
after  his  defeat  in  1743,  drank  the  health  of  Lord  Stair  and  Lord 
Carteret  (who  were  not  his  friends)  for  the  victory  of  Dettingen, 
saying  that  he  did  not  care  by  whom  the  thing  was  done,  so  long 
as  it  was  done,  Horace  Walpole's  letters  are  an  index  to  the 
history  of  England.  The  falls  of  ministers,  the  victories  of  the 
"  wonderful  year,"  the  revolutions  of  America  and  France  are 
interpolated  in  a  chronicle  of  vanities.  The  irony  of  the  historian 
may  be  vexatious  to  some  readers,  but  it  does  not  deprive  the 
letters  of  their  effect  as  a  continuous  narrative  of  unequalled 
liveliness  and  spirit.  Their  injustice  is  the  injustice  of  the  near 
view.  The  writer  ignored  the  virtues  of  many  of  his  contempor- 
aries, frequently  with  reason.  He  did  not  discover  in  Mr.  Pitt, 
the  factious  partizan  of  1742,  any  of  the  qualities  which  he  after- 
wards was  able  to  recognise  in  the  heroic  statesman  of  the  Seven 
Years'  War.      He  wrote  what  he  saw  and  knew. 

In  speaking  of  books  and  authors,  Horace  Walpole  is  little 
given  to  dissimulation.  His  opinions  about  his  contemporaries 
have  been  hardly  dealt  with,  as  though  it  were  an  exceptional 
thing  or  a  mark  of  incurable  levity  to  make  critical  statements  that 
are  not  generally  ratified  in  the  following  generation.  His 
opinions  are  commonly  much  like  Gray's.  "  He  would  rather  have 
written  the  most  absurd  lines  in  Lee  than  Thomson's  Scasotis?''  It 
will  be  generally  admitted  that  Walpole  was  wrong  about  Thomson's 
Seasons.  But  if  wrong,  he  was  wrong  in  no  absurd  or  affected 
way.  The  Seasons  had  not  taken  his  fancy  ;  he  confused  them 
with  the  other  didactic  blank  verse  of  his  time.  Walpole  in  his 
antipathy  to  dulness  had  sworn  a  feud  against  monotonous  poetry. 
"  If   one   has  a   mind  to  be  read  one  must  write  metaphysical 


HORACE    IVALPOLE  235 


poems  in  blank  verse  which  have  not  half  the  imagination  of 
romances,  and  are  dull  without  any  agreeable  absurdity.  Only 
think  of  the  gravity  of  this  wise  age  that  have  exploded  Cleopatra 
and  Pharamoiid  and  approved  the  Pleasures  of  the  IiiiagitiatioJi, 
the  Art  of  Preserving  Health,  and  Leonidas !  I  beg  the  age's 
pardon  ;  it  has  done  approving  these  poems  and  has  forgot  them." 
This  piece  of  criticism  is  sent  off  to  Mr.  Conway  in  the  year  of 
Culloden,  to  amuse  him  in  his  garrison  at  Stirling.  It  was  some 
time  before  this,  in  March  1745  and  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Horace 
Mann,  that  he  had  committed  himself  in  respect  of  the  Scaso?is : — 

"The  town  flocks  to  a  new  play  of  Thomson's  called  Taiicred 
and  Sigismtmda;  it  is  very  dull ;  I  have  read  it.  I  cannot  bear 
modern  poetry  :  those  refiners  of  the  stage  and  of  the  incorrectness 
of  English  verse  are  most  wofully  insipid.  I  had  rather  have 
written  the  most  absurd  lines  in  Lee  than  Leonidas  or  the  Seasons, 
as  I  had  rather  be  put  into  the  roundhouse  for  a  wrong-headed 
quarrel  than  sup  quietly  at  8  o'clock  with  my  grandmother. 
There  is  another  of  these  tame  geniuses,  a  Mr.  Akenside,  who 
writes  Odes  :  in  one  he  has  lately  published  he  says  Light  the 
tapers,  urge  the  fire.  Had  you  not  rather  iwake  gods  jostle  in  the 
dar/c  than  light  the  candles  for  fear  they  should  break  their 
heads  ? " 

All  this  may  be  wrong,  but  it  is  unquestionably  sane  and 
lively.  "  Have  you  waded  through  or  into  Lord  Lyttelton  ?  How 
dull  we  may  be,  if  we  will  but  take  pains  for  six  or  seven  and 
twenty  years  together."  It  may  be  unamiable  to  write  like  this, 
but  it  is  still  worse  to  pretend  to  admire,  without  admiring,  the 
tragedy,  the  epic,  the  philosophical  history. 

In  the  style  of  his  letters  as  in  everything  else  he  has  baffled  his 
critics.  The  phantasm  of  Strawberry  Hill  comes  between  them 
and  the  page  ;  his  grammar  is  associated  in  their  minds  with 
ideas  of  Gothic  toy-shops,  it  is  pronounced  to  be  full  of  affectations, 
as  though  writing  came  by  nature.  It  is  true  that  Walpole's 
words  and  phrases  are  perpetually  crying  out  to  be  admired. 
The  style  is  not  like  that  of  Cowper's  letters,  where  nothing  inter- 
rupts the  story  by  distracting  attention  to  the  words  in  which  it 
is  told.  Nevertheless,  in  Walpole's  letters,  the  phrases  and 
conceits,  however  noticeable,  are  not  mere  external  ornament, 
they  are  all  alive,  they  belong  to  the  discourse,  they  are  not 
stitched  on  like  spangles.  To  be  offended  by  the  style  is  a 
gratuitous  vexation,  and  even  pitiful,  if  it  stands  in  the  way  of  a 


236  ENGLISH  PROSE 


proper  acquaintance  with  the  letters.  For  the  matter  of  them,  if 
matter  it  be,  is  one  of  the  most  brilHant  of  all  the  pageants  of 
Vanity  Fair,  and  the  record,  from  the  first  letters  of  the  "  Quadruple 
Alliance,"  and  the  Virgilian  reminiscences  of  Eton  and  the 
waters  of  Thames,  to  the  letter  of  farewell  to  the  Countess  of 
Ossory,  sixty  years  later,  is,  throughout,  with  all  its  variety  and 
multiplicity  of  details,  a  record  free  from  any  compromise  with 
things  distasteful  to  the  writer.  It  displays  the  same  vivacity  of 
mind,  the  same  general  principles,  the  same  wit  and  spirit 
everywhere.  No  ancient  philosopher  was  ever  more  secure  and 
self-consistent. 

Of  his  writings,  apart  from  his  letters,  the  Memoirs  are  the 
most  valuable,  the  Anecdotes  of  Painting  the  most  laborious.  The 
latter  work,  founded  upon  the  papers  of  \'ertue  the  engraver,  is 
antiquarian  rather  than  literary,  an  arrangement  of  documentary 
materials  ;  it  contains,  however,  in  a  style  often  curiously  like 
that  of  Johnson's  Lives,  many  brilliant  passages  of  biography  and 
criticism.  The  Memoirs  were  intended  by  their  author  to  fill  up 
the  gaps  in  solemn  history,  by  giving  an  account  of  particular 
things  apt  ^to  be  overlooked  by  the  historian,  and  easily  supplied 
by  Horace  Walpole.  It  would  be  a  mistake,  however,  to  look  on 
the  Memoirs  as  an  unheroic  history,  giving  the  reverse  of  all 
contemporary  fame  ;  it  is  not  Walpole's  business  to  write  the 
history  of  battles,  but  he  is  far  from  indifferent  to  them,  as  may 
be  seen  by  reference  to  his  notes  on  the  death  of  Wolfe,  and 
many  other  passages  besides.  The  Memoirs  are  of  course 
deprived  of  the  extraordinary  charm  that  is  found  only  in  letters 
and  in  no  other  historical  writing  whatever ;  for  only  letters  can 
give  the  impression,  not  of  the  past  time  merely,  but  of  the 
expectations  and  uncertainties  of  the  past.  In  reading  the  letters 
one  catches  the  look  of  things  as  they  were  when  they  were 
happening,  and  when  their  meaning  was  not  fully  evident  :  in  the 
Memoirs,  revised  and  corrected  by  the  author,  things  are  fixed, 
and  the  conventional  interpretation  of  the  historical  fact  has 
begun. 

Walpole's  romance  of  the  Castle  of  Otranto  has  lost  its 
former  reputotion.  His  aim  in  writing  it  is  characteristic. 
His  admiration  of  romantic  and  Gothic  art  was  one  variety  of 
his  love  of  wit ;  it  was  the  quaintness,  the  surprises,  that  he 
appreciated,  not  the  "  natural  magic "  such  as  fascinated  the 
readers  of  Ossian.      The  Castle    of  Otranto  was  an  attempt  to 


HORACE  JVALPOLE  237 

vivify  the  medieval  matter  and  present  it  in  a  modern  style. 
To  keep  the  grace  and  the  variety  of  medieval  romance,  with- 
out any  parody  of  medieval  style,  or  any  loss  of  independence  ; 
to  deliver  romance  from  the  helpless  rhetoric  of  the  books  of 
chivalry,  and  make  it  modern  and  ironical,  has  been  the  purpose 
of  many  stories,  front  the  Orlando  Fiirioso  to  the  Misfortii?ies  0/ 
Elphif!.  Walpole's  experiment  was  one  of  this  sort.  It  came 
naturally  from  his  unscrupulous  combination  of  romantic  studies 
with  precision  of  thought  ;  from  his  antipathy  to  confused  and 
overburdened  forms  of  literature,  together  with  his  intellectual 
curiosity. 

W.  P.  Ker. 


A  SUMMARY  OF  THE   PROGRESS  OF   TASTE 

The  stages  of  no  art  have  been  more  distinctly  marked  than  those 
of  architecture  in  Britain.  It  is  not  prolaable  that  our  masters  the 
Romans  ever  taught  us  more  than  the  construction  of  arches. 
Those,  imposed  on  ckisters  of  disproportioned  pillars,  composed 
the  whole  grammar  of  our  Saxon  ancestors.  Churches  and 
castles  were  the  only  buildings,  I  should  suppose,  they  erected  of 
stone.  As  no  taste  was  bestowed  on  the  former,  no  beauty  was 
sought  in  the  latter.  Masses  to  resist  and  uncouth  towers  for 
keeping  watch  were  all  the  conveniences  they  demanded.  As 
even  luxury  was  not  secure  but  in  a  Church,  succeeding  refine- 
ments were  solely  laid  out  on  religious  fabrics,  till  by  degrees  was 
perfected  the  bold  scenery  of  Gothic  architecture,  with  all  its  airy 
embroidery  and  pensile  vaults.  Holbein,  as  I  have  shown, 
checked  all  that  false,  yet  venerable  style,  and  first  attempted  to 
sober  it  to  classic  measures  ;  but  not  having'  gone  far  enough,  his 
imitators,  without  his  taste,  compounded  a  mongrel  species,  that 
had  no  boldness,  no  lightness,  and  no  system.  This  lasted  till 
Inigo  Jones,  like  his  countryman  and  cotemporaiy,  Milton,  dis- 
closed the  beauties  of  ancient  Greece,  and  established  simplicity, 
harmony,  and  proportion.  That  school,  however  was  too  chaste 
to  iiourish  long.  Sir  Christopher  Wren  lived  to  see  it  almost 
expire  before  him  ;  and  after  a  mixture  of  French  and  Dutch 
ugliness  had  expelled  truth,  without  erecting  any  certain  style  in 
its  stead,  Vanbrugh,  with  his  ponderous  and  unmeaning  masses 
overwhelmed  architecture  in  mere  masonry.  Will  posterity  believe 
that  such  piles  were  erected  in  the  very  period  when  St.  Paul's 
was  finishing  ? 

Vanbrugh's  immediate  successors  had  no  taste  ;  yet  some  of 
them  did  not  forget  that  there  was  such  a  science  as  regular 
architecture.  Still,  there  was  a  Mr.  Archer,  the  groom-porter, 
who  built  Hethrop,  and  a  temple  at  Wrest  ;  and  one  Wakefield, 


HORACE  WALPOLE  239 

who  gave  the  design  of  Helmsley  ;  each  of  whom  seemed  to  think 
that  Vanbrugh  had  dehvered  the  art  from  shackles,  and  that  they 
might  build  whatever  seemed  good  in  their  own  eyes. 

(From  Anecdotes  of  Painting.) 


HOGARTH'S  GENIUS 

Having  despatched  the  herd  of  our  painters  in  oil,  I  reserve  to  a 
class  by  himself  that  great  and  original  genius,  Hogarth  ;  con- 
sidering him  rather  as  a  writer  of  comedy  with  a  pencil,  than  as  a 
painter.  If  catching  the  manners  and  follies  of  an  age  living  as 
they  rise,  if  general  satire  on  vices  and  ridicules,  familiarised  by 
strokes  of  nature,  and  heightened  by  wit,  and  the  whole  animated 
by  proper  and  just  expressions  of  the  passions,  be  comedy, 
Hogarth  composed  comedies  as  much  as  Moliere  :  in  his  "Marriage 
a  la  Mode  "  there  is  even  an  intrigue  carried  on  throughout  the 
piece.  He  is  more  true  to  character  than  Congreve  ;  each  per- 
sonage is  distinct  from  the  rest,  acts  in  his  sphere,  and  cannot  be 
confounded  with  any  other  of  the  drat)iatis  persoiicc.  The  alder- 
man's footboy,  in  the  last  print  of  the  set  I  have  mentioned,  is  an 
ignorant  rustic  ;  and  if  wit  is  struck  out  from  the  characters  in 
which  it  is  not  expected,  it  is  from  their  acting  comformably  to 
their  situation  and  from  the  mode  of  their  passions,  not  from  their 
having  the  wit  of  fine  gentlemen.  Thus  there  is  wit  in  the  figure 
of  the  alderman,  who,  when  his  daughter  is  expiring  in  the 
agonies  of  poison,  wears  a  face  of  solicitude,  but  it  is  to  save  her 
gold  ring,  which  he  is  drawing  gently  from  her  finger.  The 
thought  is  parallel  to  Moliere's,  where  the  miser  puts  out  one  of 
the  candles  as  he  is  talking.  Moliere,  inimitable  as  he  has 
proved,  brought  a  rude  theatre  to  perfection.  Hogarth  had  no 
model  to  follow  and  improve  upon.  He  created  his  art,  and  used 
colours  instead  of  language.  His  place  is  between  the  Italians 
whom  we  may  consider  as  epic  poets  and  tragedians,  and  the 
Flemish  painters,  who  are  as  writers  of  farce  and  editors  of 
burlesque  nature.  They  are  the  Tom  Browns  of  the  mob. 
Hogarth  resembles  Butler,  but  his  subjects  are  more  universal, 
and  amidst  all  his  pleasantry,  he  observes  the  true  end  of  comedy, 
reformation  ;  there  is  always  a  moral  in  his  pictures.  Sometimes 
he  rose  to  tragedy,  not  in  the  catastrophe  of  kings  and  heroes,  but 


2  40  ENGLISH  PROSE 


in  marking  how  vice  conducts  insensibly  and  incidentally  to 
misery  and  shame.  He  warns  against  encouraging  cruelty  and 
idleness  in  young  minds,  and  discerns  how.  the  different  vices 
of  the  great  and  the  vulgar  lead  by  various  paths  to  the  same 
unhappiness.  The  fine  lady  in  "  Marriage  a  la  Mode^''  and  Tom 
Nero  in  the  "  Four  Stages  of  Cruelty,"  terminate  their  story  in  blood 
— she  occasions  the  murder  of  her  husband,  he  assassinates  his 
mistress.  How  delicate  and  superior  too  is  his  satire,  when  he 
intimates  in  the  College  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons  that  preside 
at  a  dissection,  how  the  legal  habitude  of  viewing  shocking  scenes 
hardens  the  human  mind,  and  renders  it  unfeeling.  The  presi- 
dent maintains  the  dignity  of  insensibility  over  an  executed  corpse, 
and  considers  it  but  the  object  of  a  lecture.  In  the  print  of  the 
sleeping   judges,     this    habitual     indifference     only    excites     our 

laughter. 

(i*  rom  the  Same.) 


CHARACTER  OF   PITT 

Pitt  had  roused  us  from  this  ignoble  lethargy  :  he  had  asserted 
that  our  resources  were  still  prodigious — he  found  them  so  in  the 
intrepidity  of  our  troops  and  navies — but  he  went  further,  and 
perhaps  too  far.  He  staked  our  revenues  with  as  little  manage- 
ment as  he  played  with  the  lives  of  the  subjects  ;  and  as  if  we 
could  never  have  another  war  to  wage,  or  as  if  he  meant,  which 
was  impracticable,  that  his  administration  should  decide  which 
alone  should  exist  as  a  nation,  Britain  or  France,  he  lavished  the 
last  treasures  of  this  country  with  a  prodigality  beyond  example 
and  beyond  excuse  ;  yet  even  that  profusion  was  not  so  blame- 
able  as  his  negligence.  Ignorant  of  the  whole  circle  of  finance, 
and  consequently  averse  from  corresponding  with  financiers,  a 
plain  set  of  men  who  are  never  to  be  paid  with  words  instead  of 
figures,  he  kept  aloof  from  all  details,  drew  magnificent  plans 
and  left  others  to  find  the  magnificent  means.  Disdaining,  too, 
to  descend  into  the  operations  of  an  office  which  he  did  not  fill, 
lie  affected  to  throw  on  the  treasury  the  execution  of  measures 
which  he  dictated,  but  for  which  he  thus  held  himself  not 
responsible.  The  conduct  was  artful,  new,  and  grand  ;  and  to 
him  proved  most  advantageous.  Secluded  from  all  eyes,  his 
orders   were   received   as   oracles  ;  and  their   success,  of  conse- 


HORACE   WALPOLE  241 

quence,  was  Imputed  to  his  inspiration.  Misfortunes  and 
miscarriages  fell  to  the  account  of  the  more  human  agents ; 
corruption  and  waste  were  charged  on  the  subordinate  priests. 
They  indeed  were  charmed  with  this  dispensation. 

As  Mr.  Pitt  neither  granted  suits  nor  received  them,  Newcastle 
revelled  in  a  boundless  power  of  appointing  agents,  commissaries, 
victuallers,  and  the  whole  train  of  leeches,  and  even  paid  his 
court  to  Pitt  by  heaping  extravagance  on  extravagance ;  for  the 
more  money  was  thrown  away,  the  greater  idea  Pitt  conceived  of 
his  system's  grandeur.  But  none  flattered  this  ostentatious 
prodigality  like  the  Germans.  From  the  King  of  Prussia  and 
Prince  Ferdinand  to  the  lowest  victualler  in  the  camp,  all  made 
advantage  of  English  easiness  and  dissipation.  As  the  minister 
was  proud  of  such  pensioners  they  were  not  coy  in  begging  his 
alms.  Fox,  too,  was  not  wanting  to  himself  during  this  harvest, 
to  which  his  office  of  paymaster  opened  so  commodious  an  inlet. 
Depressed,  annihilated  as  a  statesman,  he  sat  silent,  indemnifying 
himself  by  every  opportunity  of  gain  which  his  rival's  want  of 
economy  threw  in  his  way.  The  larger  and  more  numerous  are 
subsidies,  the  more  troops  are  in  commission,  the  more  are  on 
service  abroad,  the  ampler  means  has  the  paymaster  of  enriching 
himself.  An  unfortunate  campaign,  or  an  unpopular  peace  might 
shake  the  minister's  estabhshment  ;  but  till  this  vision  of 
expensive  glory  should  be  dissipated.  Fox  was  determined  to 
take  no  part.  But  thence,  from  that  inattention  on  one  hand, 
and  rapacity  on  the  other,  started  up  those  prodigious  private 
fortunes  which  we  have  seen  suddenly  come  forth — and  thence 
we  remained  with  a  debt  of  an  hundred  and  forty  millions  ! 

The  admirers  of  Mr.  Pitt  extol  the  reverberation  he  gave  to  our 
councils,  the  despondence  he  banished,  the  spirit  he  infused,  the 
conquests  he  made,  the  security  he  affixed  to  our  trade  and 
plantations,  the  humiliation  of  France,  the  glory  of  Britain,  can-ied 
under  his  administration  to  a  pitch  at  which  it  never  had  arrived 
— and  all  this  is  exactly  true.  When  they  add,  that  all  this 
could  not  be  purchased  too  dearly,  and  that  there  was  no  option 
between  this  conduct  and  tame  submission  to  the  yoke  of  France 
— even  this  is  just  in  a  degree  ;  but  a  material  objection  still 
remains,  not  depreciating-  a  grain  from  this  bill  of  merits,  which 
must  be  gratefully  acknowledged  by  whoever  calls  himself  an 
Englishman — yet  very  derogatory  from  Mr.  Pitt's  character,  as 
virtually  trusted  with  the  revenues,  the  property  of  his  country. 

VOL.  IV  R 


242  ENGLISH  PROSE 


A  few  plain  words  will  explain  my  meaning,  and  comprehend  the 
force  of  the  question.  All  this  was  done — but  might  have  been 
done  for  many  millions  less  —  the  next  war  will  state  this 
objection  more  fully. 

Posterity,  this  is  an  impartial  picture.  I  am  neither  dazzled 
by  the  blaze  of  the  times  in  which  I  have  lived,  nor  if  there  are 
spots  in  the  sun,  do  I  deny  that  I  have  seen  them.  It  is  a  man 
I  am  describing,  and  one  whose  greatness  will  bear  to  have  his 
blemishes  fairly  delivered  to  you — not  from  a  love  of  censure  in 
me,  but  of  truth  ;  and  because  it  is  history  I  am  writing,  not 
romance.      I  pursue  my  subject. 

(From  Mcinoi?-s  of  the  Reign  of  King  George  II.) 


ALPINE  SCENERY:    THE  GRANDE   CHARTREUSE 

From  a  Hamlet  among  the  Mountains  of  Savoy, 
zSth  Sept.  1739,  N.s. 

To  Richard  West,  Esq. 

Precipices,  mountains,  torrents,  wolves,  rumblings,  Salvator 
Rosa — the  pomp  of  our  park  and  the  meekness  of  our  palace  ! 
Here  we  are,  the  lonely  lords  of  glorious,  desolate  prospects.  I 
have  kept  a  sort  of  resolution  which  I  made,  of  not  writing  to 
you  as  long  as  I  staid  in  France  :  I  am  now  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
out  of  it,  and  write  to  you.  Mind,  'tis  three  months  since  we 
heard  from  you.  I  begin  this  letter  among  the  clouds ;  where 
I  shall  finish  my  neighbour  Heaven  probably  knows  :  'tis  an  odd 
wish  in  a  mortal  letter,  to  hope  not  to  finish  it  on  this  side  the 
atmosphere.  You  will  have  a  billet  tumble  to  you  from  the  stars 
when  you  least  think  of  it ;  and  that  I  should  write  it  too  ! 
Lord,  how  potent  that  sounds !  But  I  am  to  undergo  many 
transmigrations  before  I  come  to  "  yours  ever."  Yesterday  I 
was  a  shepherd  of  Dauphine :  to-day  an  Alpine  savag"e  ;  to- 
morrow a  Carthusian  monk  ;  and  Friday  a  Swiss  Calvinist.  I 
have  one  quality  which  I  find  remains  with  me  in  all  worlds 
and  in  all  aethers  ;  I  brought  it  with  me  from  your  world,  and 
am  admired  for  it  in  this — 'tis  my  esteem  for  you  :  this  is  a 
common  thought  among  you,  and  you  will  laugh  at  it,  but  it  is 
new  here,  as  new  to  remember  one's  friends  in  the  world  one 
has  left,  as  for  you  to  remember  those  you  have  lost. 


HORACE   WALPOLE  243 


Aix  IN  Savoy,  30M  Sept. 

We  are  this  minute  come  in  here,  and  here's  an  awkward 
Abbe  this  minute  come  in  to  us.  I  asked  him  if  he  would  sit 
down.  Out,  oui,  out.  He  has  ordered  us  a  radish  soup  for 
supper,  and  has  brought  a  chess-board  to  play  with  Mr.  Conway. 
I  have  left  'em  in  the  act,  and  am  set  down  to  write  to  you. 
Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  the  prospect  we  saw  yesterday  ? 
I  never  did.  We  rode  three  leagues  to  see  the  Grande  Chartreuse  ; 
expected  bad  roads  and  the  finest  convent  in  the  kingdom.  We 
were  disappointed  pro  and  coti.  The  building  is  large  and  plain, 
and  has  nothing  remarkable  but  its  primitive  simplicity ;  they 
entertained  us  in  the  neatest  nianner,  with  eggs,  pickled  salmon, 
dried  fish,  conserves,  cheese,  butter,  grapes,  and  figs,  and  pressed 
us  mightily  to  lie  there.  We  tumbled  into  the  hands  of  a  lay- 
brother,  who  unluckily  having  charge  of  the  meal  and  bran 
showed  us  little  besides.  They  desired  us  to  set  down  our 
names  in  the  list  of  strangers,  where,  among^  others,  we  found 
two  mottoes  of  our  countrymen,  for  whose  stupidity  and  brutality  we 

blushed.    The  first  was  of  Sir  J D ,  who  had  wrote  down 

the   first   stanza   of  Justuvi  et  tenaccni   altering  the  last  line  to 

Mcnte  qiiatit  Cartliusiana.    The  second  was  of  one  D ,  Ccvluui 

ipsum  pctimus  stultitidj  et  h\c  ventri  r/idico  bclluui.  The  Goth  ! 
— But  the  road,  West,  the  road  !  winding  round  a  prodigious 
mountain,  and  surrounded  with  others,  all  shagged  with  hanging 
woods,  obscured  with  pines,  or  lost  in  clouds  !  Below,  a  torrent 
breaking  through  cliffs,  and  tumbling  through  fragments  of  rocks  ! 
Sheets  of  cascades  forcing  their  silver  speed  down  channelled 
precipices,  and  hasting  into  the  roughened  river  at  the  bottom  ! 
Now  and  then  an  old  foot-bridge,  with  a  broken  rail,  a  leaning 
cross,  a  cottage,  or  the  ruin  of  an  hermitage  !  This  sounds  too 
bombast  and  too  romantic  to  one  that  has  not  seen  it,  too  cold 
for  one  that  has.  If  I  could  send  you  my  letter  post  between 
two  lovely  tempests  that  echoed  each  other's  wrath,  you  might 
have  some  idea  of  this  noble  roaring  scene,  as  you  were  reading 
it.  Almost  on  the  summit,  upon  a  fine  verdure,  but  without  any 
prospect,  stands  the  Chartreuse.  We  staid  there  two  hours, 
rode  back  through  this  charming^  picture,  wished  for  a  painter, 
wished  to  be  poets  !  Need  I  tell  you  we  wished  for  you  ?  Good 
night  1 


244  ENGLISH  PROSE 


THE  WAR:  BURKE 

Strawberry  Hill,  iznd July  1761. 
To  George  Montagu,  Esq. 

For  my  part,  1  believe  Mademoiselle  Scuderi  drew  the  plan  of 
this  year.  It  is  all  royal  marriages,  coronations,  and  victories  ; 
they  come  tumbling  so  over  one  another  from  distant  parts  of  the 
globe,  that  it  looks  just  like  the  handywork  of  a  lady  romance 
writer,  whom  it  costs  nothing  but  a  little  false  geography  to 
make  the  great  Mogul  in  love  with  a  Princess  of  Mecklenburg 
and  defeat  two  marshals  of  France  as  he  rides  post  on  an  ele- 
phant to  his  nuptials.  I  don't  know  where  I  am.  I  had  scarce 
found  Mecklenburg  Strelitz  with  a  magnifying-glass  before  I  am 
whisked  to  Pondicherry. — Well,  I  take  it,  and  raze  it.  I  begin  to 
grow  acquainted  with  Colonel  Coote,  and  to  figure  him  packing 
up  chests  of  diamonds,  and  sending  them  to  his  wife  against  the 
King's  wedding — thunder  go  the  Tower  guns,  and  behold,  Broglio 
and  Soubise  are  totally  defeated  ;  if  the  mob  have  not  much 
stronger  heads  and  quicker  conceptions  than  I  have,  they  will 
conclude  my  Lord  Granby  is  nabob.  How  the  deuce  in  two  days 
can  one  digest  all  this  ?  Why  is  not  Pondicherry  in  Westphalia  ? 
I  don't  know  how  the  Romans  did,  but  I  cannot  support  two 
victories  every  week.  Well,  but  you  will  want  to  know  the 
particulars.  Broglio  and  Soubise  united,  attacked  our  army  on 
the  15th,  but  were  repulsed;  the  next  day,  the  Prince  Mahomet 
AUi  Cawn — no,  no,  I  mean  Prince  Ferdinand,  returned  the  attack 
and  the  French  threw  down  their  arms  and  fled,  run  over  my 
Lord  Harcourt,  who  was  going  to  fetch  the  new  Queen  ;  in  short 
I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  Mr.  Conway  is  safe,  and  I  am  as 
happy  as  Mr.  Pitt  himself.  We  have  only  lost  a  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Keith  ;  Colonel  Marlay  and  Harry  Townshend  are 
wounded. 

I  could  beat  myself  for  not  having  a  flag  ready  to  display  on 
my  round  tower,  and  guns  mounted  on  all  my  battlements. 
Instead  of  that,  I  have  been  foolishly  trying  on  my  new  pictures 
upon  my  gallery.  However,  the  oratoiy  of  our  Lady  of  Straw- 
berry shall  be  dedicated  next  year  on  the  anniversary  of  Mr. 
Conway's  safety.  Think  with  his  intrepidity,  and  delicacy  of 
honour  wounded,  what  I  had  to  apprehend  ;  you  shall 
absolutely  be  here  on  the  sixteenth  of  next  July.  Mr.  Hamilton 
tells  me  your  King  does  not  set  out  for  his  new  dominions  till  the 


HORACE  IVALPOLE  245 

day  after  the  Coronation  ;  if  you  will  come  to  it,  I  can  give  you  a 
very  good  place  for  the  procession  ;  where,  is  a  profound  secret, 
because,  if  known,  I  should  be  teased  to  death  and  none  but  my 
first  friends  shall  be  admitted.  I  dined  with  your  secretary 
yesterday  ;  there  were  Garrick  and  a  young  Mr.  Burke,  who  wrote 
a  book  in  the  style  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  that  was  much  admired. 
He  is  a  sensible  man,  but  has  not  worn  off  his  authorism  yet,  and 
thinks  there  is  nothing  so  charming  as  writers,  and  to  be  one. 
He  will  know  better  one  of  these  days.  I  like  Hamilton's  little 
Marly  ;  we  walked  in  the  great  allec  and  drank  tea  in  the  arbour 
of  ireiUage  :  they  talked  of  Shakespeare  and  Booth,  of  Swift  and 
my  Lord  Bath,  and  I  was  thinking  of  Madam  Sevigne.  Good 
night — I  have  a  dozen  other  letters  to  write  ;  I  must  tell  my 
friends  how  happy  I  am — not  as  an  Englishman,  but  as  a  cousin. 


OLD  AGE  :    FRANCE  :    MADAME   D'ARBLAY 

Strawberry  IIit.i,,  29///  Aligns/,  1796. 
To  Miss  Hannah  More. 

You  are  not  only  the  most  beneficent,  but  the  most  benevolent 
of  human  beings.  Not  content  with  being  a  perfect  saint  yourself, 
which  (forgive  me  for  saying)  does  not  always  imply  jModigious 
compassion  for  others  ;  not  satisfied  with  being  the  most  disin- 
terested, nay,  the  reverse  of  all  patriots,  for  you  sacrifice  your  very 
slender  fortune,  not  to  improve  it,  but  to  keep  the  poor  honest 
instead  of  corrupting  them  ;  and  you  write  politics  as  simply, 
intelligibly,  and  unartfully,  not  as  cunningly  as  you  can  to  mis- 
lead. Well,  with  all  these  giant  virtues,  you  can  find  room  and 
time  in  your  heart  and  occupations  for  harbouring  and  e.xercising 
what  those  monkeys  of  pretensions,  the  French,  invented  and 
called  les  petiies  morales,  which  were  to  supply  society  with 
filigrain  duties,  in  the  room  of  all  virtues,  which  they  abolished  on 
their  road  to  the  adoption  of  philosophy  and  atheism.  Yes, 
though  for  ever  busied  in  exercising  sei-vices  and  charities  for 
individuals,  or  for  whole  bodies  of  people,  you  do  not  leave  a 
cranny  empty  into  which  you  can  slip  a  kindness.  Your  incjuiry 
after  me  to  Miss  Berry  is  so  friendly,  that  I  cannot  trust  solely  to 
her  thanking  you  for  your  letter,  as  I  am  sure  she  will,  having 
sent  it  to  her  as  she  is  bathing  in  the  sea  at  Bognor  Rocks  ;  but 
I  must  with  infinite  gratitude  give  you  a  brief  account  of  myself — 


246  ENGLISH  PROSE 


a  very  poor  one  indeed  must  I  give.  Condemned  as  a  cripple  to 
my  couch  for  the  rest  of  my  days  I  doubt  I  am.  Though  per- 
fectly healed,  and  even  without  a  scar,  my  leg  is  so  weakened  that 
I  have  not  recovered  the  least  use  of  it,  nor  can  move  across  my 
chamber  unless  lifted  up  and  held  by  two  servants.  This  con- 
stitutes me  totally  a  prisoner.  But  why  should  not  I  be  so  ? 
What  business  had  I  to  live  to  the  brink  of  seventy-nine  ?  And 
why  should  one  litter  the  world  at  that  age  ?  Then,  I  thank  God 
I  have  vast  blessings  ;  I  have  preserved  my  eyes,  ears,  and  teeth  ; 
I  have  no  pain  left  ;  and  I  would  bet  with  any  dormouse  that  it 
cannot  outsleep  me.  And  when  one  can  afford  to  pay  for  every 
relief,  comfort,  or  assistance  that  can  be  procured  at  fourscore, 
dares  one  complain  ?  Must  not  one  reflect  on  the  thousands  of 
old  poor,  who  are  suffering  martyrdom,  and  have  none  of  these 
alleviations.  O,  my  good  friend,  I  must  consider  myself  as  at  my 
best  ;  for  if  I  drag  on  a  little  longer,  can  I  expect  to  remain  even 
so  tolerably  ?  Nay,  does  the  world  present  a  pleasing  scene  ? 
Are  not  the  devils  escaped  out  of  the  swine,  and  overrunning  the 
earth  headlong  ? 

What  a  theme  for  meditation,  that  the  excellent  humane  Louis 
Seize  should  have  been  prevented  from  saving  himself  by  that 
monster  Drouet,  and  that  that  execrable  wretch  should  be  saved 
even  by  those,  some  of  whom  one  may  suppose  he  meditated  to 
massacre  ;  for  at  \\hat  does  a  Frenchman  stop .?  But  1  will  quit 
this  shocking  subject,  and  for  another  reason  too  :  I  omitted  one 
of  my  losses,  almost  the  use  of  my  fingers  :  they  are  so  lame  that 
I  cannot  write  a  dozen  lines  legibly,  but  am  forced  to  have 
recourse  to  my  secretaiy.  I  will  only  reply  by  a  word  or  two  to 
a  question  you  seem  to  ask  ;  how  I  like  "  Camilla "  t  I  do  not 
care  to  say  how  little.  Alas  !  she  has  reversed  experience,  which 
I  have  long  thought  reverses  its  own  utility  by  coming  at  the 
wrong  end  of  our  life  when  we  do  not  want  it.  This  author  knew 
the  world  and  penetrated  characters  before  she  had  stepped  over 
the  threshold  ;  and,  now  she  has  seen  so  much  of  it,  she  has  little 
or  no  insight  at  all  :  perhaps  she  apprehended  having  seen  too 
much,  and  kept  the  bags  of  foul  air  that  she  brought  from  the 
Cave  of  Tempests  too  closely  tied. 

Adieu,  thou  who  mightest  be  one  of  the  cleverest  of  women  if 
thou  didst  not  prefer  being  07je  of  the  best !  And  when  I  say  one 
of  the  best  I  have  not  engaged  my  vote  for  the  second. — Yours 
most  gratefully. 


GILBERT  WHITE 


[Gilbert  White  was  born  at  Selborne,  Hampshire,  where  his  father  had  a 
small  estate,  on  i8th  July  1720.  His  schoolmaster  was  Thomas  Warton, 
father  of  the  Professor  of  Poetry,  and  he  entered  at  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  in 
December  1739,  and  was  elected  a  fellow  of  the  College  in  March  1744.  He 
took  holy  orders,  but  never  held  any  other  preferment  than  his  fellowship.  He 
settled  at  his  native  place  and  only  left  it  to  pay  brief  visits  to  friends,  filling 
his  time  with  the  study  of  the  natural  history  and  antiquities  of  the  parish. 
In  1789  he  published  The  Natural  History  and  Afitiquities  of  Selborne, 
and  died  at  Selborne  on  26th  June  1793.] 

The  Natural  History  of  Selborne  was  the  first  readable  book  in 
English  on  natural  history,  and  before  White  no  one  had  carried  out 
the  method  of  describing  all  that  he  had  observed  in  a  particular 
locality.  The  book  consists  of  genuine  letters  to  several  corre- 
spondents. The  letters  are  simple  in  style,  and  seldom  long,  and 
contain  lucid  accounts  of  the  habits  of  birds  and  other  animals. 
There  is  no  attempt  at  decoration  in  the  composition  ;  the  writer, 
in  the  simplest  English,  succeeds  in  arousing  in  others  the  interest 
which  he  himself  feels.  His  sentences  convey  exactly  what  he 
had  seen,  and  he  never  becomes  either  uninteresting  or  rhetorical. 
Mingled  with  his  own  observations  are  questions  and  discussions 
of  unsolved  problems  of  natural  history,  glimpses  of  rural  society, 
and  sufficient  allusions  to  literature  to  show  that  a  well  chosen 
set  of  books  had  been  read,  so  as  to  form  part  of  the  author's 
mind.  White  may  be  regarded  as  the  founder  of  a  new  branch 
of  English  literature,  and  few  of  those  who  have  followed  him 
have  had  so  much  to  tell,  or  have  succeeded  in  conveying  so 
much  in  so  short  a  space.  In  the  narration  of  the  features  of 
events  so  as  to  give  a  clear  idea  of  the  details,  as  well  as  of  the 
whole.   White,  in   the   natural   world,   shows  skill  comparable  to 


248  ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  of  Cowper  in  the  description  of  his  domestic  circle  and  its 
incidents.  The  letters  of  White  are  less  numerous  and  briefer 
than  those  of  Cowper,  and  of  somewhat  less  literary  power,  but 
they  have  the  same  kind  of  merit,  and  while  making  clear 
what  their  writer  saw,  unconsciously  furnish  a  portrait  of  his 
own  mind. 

Norman  Moore. 


MIGRATION   OF   BIRDS 

Selp.ornr,  8/'/^  Dec.  1769. 

Dear  Sir — I  was  much  gratified  by  your  communicative  letter 
on  your  return  from  Scotland,  where  you  spent  some  considerable 
time,  and  gave  yourself  good  room  to  examine  the  natural 
curiosities  of  that  extensive  kingdom,  both  those  of  the  islands, 
as  well  as  those  of  the  highlands.  The  usual  bane  of  such 
expeditions  is  hurry,  because  men  seldom  allot  themselves  half 
the  time  they  should  do  ;  but,  fixing  on  a  day  for  their  return, 
post  from  place  to  place,  rather  as  if  they  were  on  a  journey  that 
required  dispatch,  than  as  philosophers  investigating  the  works  of 
nature.  You  must  have  made,  no  doubt,  many  discoveries,  and 
laid  up  a  good  fund  of  materials  for  a  future  edition  of  the 
British  Zoology ;  and  will  have  no  reason  to  repent  that  you 
have  bestowed  so  much  pains  on  a  part  of  Great  Britain  that 
perhaps  was  never  so  well  examined  before. 

It  has  always  been  matter  of  wonder  to  me  that  fieldfares, 
which  are  so  congenerous  to  thrushes  and  blackbirds,  should 
never  chose  to  breed  in  England  ;  but  that  they  should  not  think 
even  the  highlands  cold  and  nortlicrly,  and  secjuestrated  enough, 
is  a  circumstance  still  more  strange  and  wonderful.  The  ring 
ousel,  you  find,  stays  in  Scotland  the  whole  year  round  ;  so  that 
we  have  reasons  to  conclude  that  those  migrators  that  visit  us  for 
a  short  space  every  autumn  do  not  come  from  thence. 

And  here,  I  think,  will  be  the  proper  place  to  mention  that 
those  birds  were  most  punctual  again  in  their  migration  this 
autumn,  appearing,  as  before,  about  the  30th  of  September ;  but 
their  flocks  were  larger  than  common,  and  their  stay  protracted 
beyond  the  usual  time.  If  they  came  to  spend  the  whole  winter 
with  us,  as  some  of  their  congeners  do,  and  then  left  us,  as  they 
do,  in  spring,  I  should  not  be  so  much  struck  with  the  occurrence, 
since  it  would  be  similar  to  that  of  the  other  birds  of  passage  ; 


250  ENGLISH  PROSE 


but  when  I  see  them  for  a  fortnight  at  Michaelmas,  and  again  for 
about  a  week  in  the  middle  of  April,  I  am  seized  with  wonder, 
and  long  to  be  informed  whence  these  travellers  come,  and 
whither  they  go,  since  they  seem  to  use  our  hills  merely  as  an 
inn  or  baiting  place. 

Your  account  of  the  greater  brambling  or  snow-fleck,  is  very 
amusing  ;  and  strange  it  is  that  such  a  short-winged  bird  should 
delight  in  such  perilous  voyages  over  the  northern  ocean  !  Some 
country  people  in  the  winter  time  have  every  now  and  then  told 
me  that  they  have  seen  two  or  three  white  larks  on  our  downs  ; 
but,  on  considering  the  matter,  I  begin  to  suspect  that  these  are 
some  stragglers  of  the  birds  we  are  talking  of,  which  sometimes 
perhaps  may  rove  so  far  to  the  southward. 

It  pleases  me  to  find  that  white  hares  are  so  frequent  on  the 
Scottish  mountains,  and  especially  as  you  inform  me  that  it  is  a 
distinct  species  ;  for  the  quadrupeds  of  Britain  are  so  few,  that 
every  new  species  is  a  great  acquisition. 

The  eagle-owl,  could  it  be  proved  to  belong  to  us,  is  so  majestic 
a  bird,  that  it  would  grace  our  fauna  much.  I  never  was 
informed  before  where  wild-geese  are  known  to  breed. 

You  admit,  I  find,  that  I  have  proved  your  fen  salicaria  to  be 
the  lesser  reed-sparrow  of  Ray  ;  and  I  think  you  may  be  secure 
that  I  am  right,  for  I  took  very  particular  pains  to  clear  up  that 
matter,  and  had  some  fair  specimens  ;  but  as  they  were  not  well 
preserved,  they  are  decayed  already.  You  will,  no  doubt,  insert 
it  in  its  proper  place  in  your  next  edition.  Your  additional  plates 
will  much  improve  your  work. 

De  Buffon,  I  know  has  described  the  water  shrew-mouse  ; 
but  still  I  am  pleased  to  find  you  have  discovered  it  in  Lincoln- 
shire, for  the  reason  I  have  given  in  the  article  of  the  white  hare. 

As  a  neighbour  was  lately  ploughing  in  a  dry,  chalky  field, 
far  removed  from  any  water,  he  turned  out  a  water-rat,  that  was 
curiously  lain  up  in  an  hybn-iiacithan  artificially  formed  of  grass 
and  leaves.  At  one  end  of  the  burrow  lay  above  a  gallon  of 
potatoes  regularly  stowed,  on  which  it  was  to  have  supported 
itself  for  the  winter.  But  the  difficuUy  with  me  is  how  this 
amphihius  miis  came  to  fix  its  winter  station  at  such  a  distance 
from  the  water.  Was  it  detemiined  in  its  choice  of  that  place  by 
the  mere  accident  of  finding  the  potatoes  which  were  planted 
there  ;  or  is  it  the  constant  practice  of  the  aquatic  rat  to  forsake 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  water  in  the  colder  months  ? 


GILBERT  WHITE  251 


Though  I  deHght  very  Httle  in  analogous  reasoning,  knowing 
how  fallacious  it  is  with  respect  to  natural  history  ;  yet,  in  the 
following  instance,  I  cannot  help  being  inclined  to  think  it  may 
conduce  towards  the  explanation  of  a  difficulty  that  I  have 
mentioned  before,  with  respect  to  the  invariable  early  retreat  of 
the  Hiriindo  apus,  or  swift,  so  many  weeks  before  its  congeners  ; 
and  that  not  only  with  us,  but  also  in  Andalusia,  where  they  also 
begin  to  retire  about  the  beginning  of  August. 

The  great  large  bat  (which  by  the  bye  is  at  present  a  nonde- 
script in  England,  and  what  I  have  never  been  able  yet  to 
procure)  retires  or  migrates  very  early  in  the  summer  ;  it  also 
ranges  very  high  for  its  food,  feeding  in  a  different  region  in  the 
air ;  and  this  is  the  reason  I  never  could  procure  one.  Now 
this  is  exactly  the  case  with  the  swifts  ;  for  they  take  their  food 
in  a  more  exalted  region  than  the  other  species,  and  are  very 
seldom  seen  hawking  for  flies  near  the  ground,  or  over  the  surface 
of  the  water.  From  hence  I  would  conclude  that  these  /iiriindines 
and  the  larger  bats  are  supported  by  some  sorts  of  high-flying 
gnats,  scarabs,  or  phalccna^  that  are  of  short  continuance  ;  and 
that  the  short  stay  of  these  strangers  is  regulated  by  the  defect  of 
their  food. 

By  my  journal  it  appears  that  curlews  clamoured  on  to  October 
the  thirty- first  ;  since  which  I  have  not  seen  or  heard  any. 
Swallows  were  observed  on  to  November  the  third. 

(From  Natural  History  of  Sclhornc.') 


MISCELLANEOUS   OBSERVATIONS 

Selkorne,  30///  MarcJi,  1768. 

Dear  Sir — Some  intelligent  country  people  have  a  notion 
that  we  have,  in  these  parts,  a  species  of  the  gemis  MustcHtttwj, 
besides  the  weasel,  stoat,  ferret,  and  polecat  ;  a  little  reddish 
beast,  not  much  bigger  than  a  field-mouse,  but  much  longer, 
which  they  call  a  cane.  This  piece  of  intelligence  can  be  little 
depended  on  ;  but  further  inquiry  may  be  made. 

A  gentleman  in  this  neighbourhood  had  two  milk-white  rooks 
in  one  nest.  A  booby  of  a  carter,  finding  them  before  they  were 
able  to  fly,  threw  them  down  and  destroyed  them,  to   the  regret 


252  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  the  owner,  who  would  have  been  glad  to  have  preserved  such 
a  curiosity  in  his  rookery.  I  saw  the  birds  myself  nailed  against 
the  end  of  a  barn,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  their  bills,  legs, 
feet,  and  claws  were  milk-white. 

A  shepherd  saw,  as  he  thought,  some  white  larks  on  a  down 
above  my  house  this  winter  :  were  not  these  the  Einberiza  nivalis 
^the  snow-flake  of  the  British  Zoology  ?     No  doubt  they  were. 

A  i&w  years  ago  I  saw  a  cock  bullfinch  in  a  cage,  which  had 
been  caught  in  the  fields  after  it  was  come  to  its  full  colours.  In 
about  a  year  it  began  to  look  dingy ;  and  blackening  every 
succeeding  year,  it  became  coal-black  at  the  end  of  four.  Its 
chief  food  was  hempseed.  vSuch  influence  has  food  on  the  colour 
of  animals !  The  pied  and  mottled  colours  of  domesticated 
animals  are  supposed  to  be  owing  to  high,  various,  and  unusual 
food. 

I  had  remarked,  for  years,  that  the  root  of  the  cuckoo-pint 
{annii)  was  frequently  scratched  out  of  the  dry  banks  of  hedges, 
and  eaten  in  severe  snowy  weather.  After  observing,  with  some 
exactness,  myself,  and  getting  others  to  do  the  same,  we  found  it 
was  the  thrush  kind  that  searched  it  out.  The  root  of  the  arum 
is  remarkably  warm  and  pungent. 

Our  flocks  of  female  chaffinches  have  not  yet  forsaken  us. 
The  blackbirds  and  thrushes  are  very  much  thinned  down  by  that 
fierce  weather  in  January. 

In  the  middle  of  February  I  discovered,  in  my  tall  hedges,  a 
little  bird  that  raised  my  curiosity  :  it  was  of  that  yellow-green 
colour  that  belongs  to  the  salicarin  kind,  and,  I  think,  was  soft- 
billed.  It  was  no  partis ;  and  was  too  long  and  too  big  for  the 
golden -crowned  wren,  appearing  most  like  the  largest  willow- 
wren.  It  hung  sometimes  with  its  back  downwards,  but  never 
continuing  one  moment  in  the  same  place.  I  shot  at  it,  but  it 
was  so  desultory  that  I  missed  my  aim. 

I  wonder  that  the  stone-curlew,  C//aradriies  auficticinus,  should 
be  mentioned  by  the  writers  as  a  rare  bird  :  it  abounds  in  all  the 
champaign  parts  of  Hampshire  and  Sussex,  and  breeds,  I  think, 
all  the  summer,  having  young  ones,  I  know,  very  late  in  the 
autumn.  Already  they  begin  clamouring  in  the  evening.  They 
cannot,  1  think,  with  any  propriety  be  called,  as  they  are  by  Mr. 
Ray,  circa  aquas  vcrsantcsj  for  witli  us,  by  day  at  least,  they 
haunt  only  the  most  dry,  open,  upland  fields  and  sheep-walks, 
far  removed  from  water  :   what  they  may  do  in  the  night  I  cannot 


GILBERT  WHITE  253 


say.      Worms  are  their  usual   food,  but  they  also  eat   toads  and 
frogs. 

I   can  show  you  some  specimens  of  my  new  mice.      Linnajus 
perhaps  would  call  the  species  Mus  minimus. 

(From  the  Same.) 


ON  THE  FLIGHT  OF   BIRDS 

Selborne,  "jth  August  1778. 
Dear  Sir — A  good  ornithologist  should  be  able  to  distinguish 
birds  by  their  air  as  well  by  their  colours  and  shape  ;  on  the  ground 
as  well  as  on  the  wing  ;  and  in  the  bush  as  well  as  in  the  hand. 
For  though  it  must  not  be  said  that  every  species  of  birds  has  a 
manner  peculiar  to  itself,  yet  there  is  somewhat  in  most  genera 
at  least,  that  at  first  sight  discriminates  them,  and  enables  a 
judicious  observer  to  pronounce  upon  them  with  some  certainty. 
Put  a  bird  in  motion 

.    .    .  ct  vera  inccssu  pahiit  .   .   . 

Thus  kites  and  buzzards  sail  round  in  circles  with  wings  ex- 
panded and  motionless  ;  and  it  is  from  their  gliding  manner  that 
the  former  are  still  called  in  the  north  of  England  gleads,  from 
the  Saxon  verb  glidan.,  to  glide.  The  kestrel,  or  windhover,  has 
a  peculiar  mode  of  hanging  in  the  air  in  one  place,  his  wings  all 
the  while  being  briskly  agitated.  Hen-harriers  fly  low  over 
heaths  or  fields  of  corn,  and  beat  the  ground  regularly  like  a 
pointer  or  setting-dog.  Owls  move  in  a  buoyant  manner,  as  if 
lighter  than  the  air ;  they  seem  to  want  ballast.  There  is  a 
peculiarity  belonging  to  ravens  that  must  draw  the  attention  even 
of  the  most  incurious — they  spend  all  their  leisure  time  in 
striking  and  cuffing  each  other  on  the  wing  in  a  kind  of  playful 
skirmish  ;  and,  when  they  move  from  one  place  to  another, 
frequently  turn  on  their  backs  with  a  loud  croak  and  seem  to  be 
falling  to  the  ground.  When  this  odd  gesture  betides  them,  they 
are  scratching  themselves  with  one  foot,  and  thus  lose  the  centre 
of  gravity.  Rooks  sometimes  dive  and  tumble  in  a  frolicsome 
manner  ;  crows  and  daws  swagger  in  their  walk  ;  wood-peckers 
fly  volatu  uiidoso,  opening  and  closing  their  wings  at  every  stroke, 
and  so  are  always  rising  or  falling  in  curves.      All  of  this  genus 


254  ENGLISH  PROSE 


use  their  tails,  which  inchne  downward,  as  a  support  while  they 
run  up  trees.  Parrots,  hke  all  other  hook-clawed  birds,  walk 
awkwardly  and  make  use  of  their  bill  as  a  third  foot,  climbing 
and  descending  with  ridiculous  caution.  All  the  Gallina:  parade 
and  walk  gracefully  and  run  nimbly  ;  but  fly  with  difficulty  with 
an  impetuous  whirring,  and  in  a  straight  line.  Magpies  and 
jays  flutter  with  powerless  wings,  and  make  no  dispatch  ;  herons 
seem  encumbered  with  too  much  sail  for  their  light  bodies,  but 
these  vast  hollow  wings  are  necessary  in  earring  burdens,  such  as 
large  fishes  and  the  like  ;  pigeons,  and  particularly  the  sort  called 
smiters,  have  a  way  of  clashing  their  wings,  the  one  against  the 
other,  over  their  backs  with  a  loud  snap  ;  another  variety,  called 
tumblers,  turn  themselves  over  in  the  air.  Some  birds  have 
movements  peculiar  to  the  season  of  love  ;  thus  ringdoves, 
though  strong  and  rapid  at  other  times,  yet  in  the  spring  hang 
about  on  the  wing  in  a  toying  and  playful  manner  ;  thus  the  cock- 
snipe,  while  breeding,  forgetting  his  former  flight,  fans  the  air 
like  the  windhover  ;  and  the  greenfinch  in  particular,  exhibits 
such  languishing  and  faltering  gestures  as  to  appear  like  a 
wounded  and  dying  bird  ;  the  kingfisher  darts  along  like  an 
arrow  ;  fern-owls  or  goat-suckers,  glance  in  the  dusk  over  the 
tops  of  trees  like  a  meteor  ;  starlings  as  it  were  swim  along,  while 
missel-thrushes  use  a  wild  and  desultory  flight ;  swallows  sweep 
over  the  surface  of  the  ground  and  water,  and  distinguish  them- 
selves by  rapid  turns  and  quick  evolutions  ;  swifts  dash  round  in 
circles  ;  and  the  bank-martin  moves  with  frequent  vacillations 
like  a  butterfly.  Most  of  the  small  birds  fly  by  jerks,  rising  and 
falling  as  they  advance.  Most  small  birds  hop  ;  but  wagtails 
and  larks  walk,  moving  their  legs  alternately.  Skylarks  rise  and 
fall  perpendicularly  as  they  sing  ;  woodlarks  hang  poised  in  the 
air  ;  and  titlarks  rise  and  fall  in  large  curves,  singing  in  their 
descent.  The  whitethroat  uses  odd  jerks  and  gesticulations  over 
the  tops  of  hedges  and  bushes.  All  the  duck  kind  waddle  ; 
divers  and  auks  walk  as  if  fettered  ;  and  stand  erect  on  their 
tails  ;  these  are  the  Conipedes  of  Linnaeus.  Geese  and  cranes, 
and  most  wild  fowls  move  in  figured  flights,  often  changing  their 
position.  The  secondary  remiges  of  Tringcc,  wild  ducks,  and 
some  others,  are  very  long,  and  give  their  wings,  when  in  motion, 
a  hooked  appearance.  Dabchicks,  moor-hens,  and  coots,  fly 
erect,  with  their  legs  hanging  down,  and  hardly  make  any  dis- 
patch ;    the   reason  is  plain,  their  wings  are  placed  too  forward 


GILBERT  WHITE  255 


out  of  the  true  centre  of  gravity  ;  as  the  legs  of  auks  and  divers 
are  situated  too  backward.  (From  the  Same.) 


THE   FERN-OWL 

On  the  twelfth  of  July  I  had  a  fair  opportunity  of  contemplating 
the  motions  of  the  capri?nulgus,  or  fern-owl,  as  it  was  playing 
round  a  large  oak  that  swarmed  with  ScarabcEt  solstitiales,  or 
fern-chafers.  The  powers  of  its  wing  were  wonderful,  exceeding, 
if  possible,  the  various  evolutions  and  quick  turns  of  the  swallow 
genus.  But  the  circumstance  that  pleased  me  most  was,  that  I 
saw  it  distinctly,  more  than  once,  put  out  its  short  leg  while  on 
the  wing,  and,  by  a  bend  of  the  head,  deliver  somewhat  into  its 
mouth.  If  it  takes  any  part  of  its  prey  with  its  foot,  as  I  have 
now  the  greatest  reason  to  suppose  it  does  these  chafers,  I  no 
longer  wonder  at  the  use  of  its  middle  toe,  which  is  curiously 
furnished  with  a  serrated  claw.  (From  the  Same.) 


THE  ROOK 

The  evening  proceedings  and  mancEUvres  of  the  rooks  arc  curious 
and  amusing  in  the  autumn.  Just  before  dusk  they  return  in 
long  strings  from  the  foraging  of  the  day,  and  rendezvous  by 
thousands  over  Selborne  down,  where  they  wheel  round  in  the 
air  and  sport  and  dive  in  a  playful  manner,  all  the  while  exerting 
their  voices,  and  making  a  loud  cawing,  which,  being  blended 
and  softened  by  the  distance  that  we  at  the  village  are  below 
them,  becomes  a  confused  noise  or  chiding  ;  or  rather  a  pleasing 
murmur,  very  engaging  to  the  imagination,  and  not  unlike  the 
cry  of  a  pack  of  hounds  in  hollow,  echoing  woods,  or  the  rushing 
of  the  wind  in  tall  trees,  or  the  tumbling  of  the  tide  upon  a  pebbly 
shore.  When  this  ceremony  is  over,  with  the  last  gleam  of  day, 
they  retire  for  the  night  to  the  deep  beechen  woods  of  Tisted  and 
Ropley.  We  remember  a  little  girl  who,  as  she  was  going  to 
bed,  used  to  remark  on  such  an  occurence,  in  the  true  spirit  of 
physico-theology,  that  the  rooks  were  saying  their  prayers  ;  and 
yet  this  child  was  much  too  young  to  be  aware  that  the  Scriptures 
have  said  of  the  Deity — that  "  He  feedeth  the  ravens  who  call 
upon  him."  (From  the  Same.) 


TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 


[Tobias  George  Smollett  was  born  (i  721)  at  Dalquhurn,  in  Dumbartonshire. 
His  family  (Smollett  of  Bonhill)  was  a  good  one,  and  his  grandfather,  Sir 
James,  was  a  judge  and  a  member  of  Parliament  :  but  the  novelist's  father  was 
a  younger  son  who  died  when  the  boy  was  a  child  ;  and  though  Smollett 
himself  would  have  succeeded  to  the  family  estate  had  he  lived  a  few  years 
longer,  he  was  throughout  his  life  dependent,  or  mainly  so,  on  his  own  earnings. 
Educated  at  Glasgow,  and  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon,  he  took  an  appointment 
as  surgeon's  mate  on  board  one  of  the  ships  of  the  Carthagena  expedition  in 
1741.  On  this  voyage  he  met  Anne  Lascelles,  a  supposed  heiress  of  Jamaica, 
whom  he  married.  He  endeavoured  to  practice  both  in  London  and  in  Bath, 
but  without  success.  Before  entering  the  navy  he  had  submitted  a  bad  tragedy. 
The  Regicide,  to  Garrick  ;  and  turning  later  with  better  success  to  novel-writ- 
ing, he  produced  in  1748  Roderick  Random,  which  was  very  popular,  and  fixed 
him  for  the  rest  of  his  life  as  an  author.  Peregrine  Pickle  followed  in  1751  ; 
Ferdinand,  Cot/nt  Fathom,  in  1753.  He  afterwards  translated  or  fathered  a 
translation  of  Don  Quixote,  and  became  editor  of  The  Critical  Reviezu — a  post 
which  brought  him  into  no  little  trouble,  including  in  one  case  imprison- 
ment and  fine.  His  History  of  England — very  rapidly  written  and  not  of 
great  value,  but  extremely  profitable  to  the  author — appeared  in  1758,  Sir 
Launcelot  Greaves  in  1761.  Then  Smollett,  whose  health  was  extremely  bad, 
journeyed  to  France  and  Italy,  publishing  in  1766,  after  his  return,  a  very 
ill-tempered  book  of  Tnivels.  Three  years  later  followed  the  Adventures  of 
an  Atom.  Its  author  once  more  went  abroad,  and  died  at  Leghorn  on 
October  21,  1771,  very  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  last  and  best  book, 
The  Expedition  of  Humphry  Clinker.^ 

It  is  probable  that  in  that  vague  reflection  of  critical  opinion  in 
general  judgment  which  rarely  goes  very  far  wrong,  Smollett  takes 
on  the  whole  the  lowest  place  among  the  four  great  novelists 
of  the  mid-eighteenth  century  in  England.  Scott  indeed 
tried  to  make  him  out  Fielding's  equal  ;  but  this  was  the  almost 
solitary  example  of  national  prejudice  warping  that  sane  and 
shrewd  intellect.  Smollett  is  undoubtedly  far  more  amusing  to 
the  general  reader  than  Richardson  ;  and  it  may  be  contended 
that  his  altogether  astonishing  foulness  (which  exceeds  as  a 
VOL.  IV  S 


258  ENGLISH  PROSE 


pervading  trait  if  it  does  not  equal  in  individual  instances  the  much 
discussed  failing  of  Swift)  is  not  to  a  nice  morality  more  offensive 
than    the    sniggering    indelicacy    of    Sterne.      With    very    young 
readers  who  are  not   critical   from   the  literary  side,  Smollett  is* 
probably  the  most  popular  of  the  four. 

But  the  reader  who  begins  to  "  pull  him  to  pieces,"  to  ask 
what  is  his  idiosyncrasy,  what  his  special  contribution  to  letters, 
cannot  very  long  remain  in  doubt  as  to  the  fact  and  the  reason  of 
his  inferiority.  Thackeray,  with  the  native  shrewdness  of  a  critic 
and  the  acquired  tact  of  a  brother  of  the  mystery,  hit  one  side  of 
this  inferiority  in  the  remark,  "  He  did  not  invent  much,  I  fancy." 
In  truth,  observation,  and  observation  of  the  outside  rather  than 
of  the  inside,  is  Smollett's  characteristic.  He  had  seen  much  ;  he 
had  felt  much  ;  he  had  desired,  and  enjoyed,  and  failed  in,  and 
been  indignant  at  much.  And  he  related  these  experiences,  or 
something  like  them,  with  a  fresh  and  vigorous  touch,  giving  them 
for  the  most  part  true  life  and  nature,  but  not  infusing  any  great 
individuality  into  them  either  from  the  artistic  or  the  ethical  side. 
He  was  a  good  writer  but  not  one  of  distinction.  He  never  takes 
the  veiy  slightest  trouble  about  construction  :  his  books  are  mere 
lengths  cut  off  from  a  conceivably  infinite  bead-roll  of  adventures. 
Vivid  as  are  his  sketches  they  all  run  (except  perhaps  in  his  last 
and  best  book)  to  types.  His  humour  though  exuberant  is  for  the 
most  part  what  has  been  called  "  the  humour  of  the  stick."  He 
has  no  commanding'  or  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature 
below  the  surface.  And  this  brings  us  to  the  one  idiosyncrasy 
or  characteristic  which  Smollett  did  very  unfortunately  succeed  in 
impressing  on  his  books,  and  not  least  on  those  of  them  which 
have  survived — the  novels.  He  seems  himself  to  have  had  many 
good  personal  qualities,  to  have  been  a  fervent  lover,  a  staunch 
friend,  a  steadfast  politician,  a  generous  acquaintance  and  patron, 
a  man  of  dauntless  courage  and  (except  in  the  ugly  passage  of  his 
taking  money  to  foist  in  the  "  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality  "  into 
Pcrcgri7ie  Pickle)  of  incorruptible  integrity.  But  these  good 
things  were  "  dashed  and  brewed "  not  merely  with  the  above- 
mentioned  coarseness  but  with  a  savage  ferocity  of  temper,  which 
not  only  vented  itself  on  the  unlucky  authors  whom  he  criticised 
and  the  unlucky  patrons  who  did  not  patronise  him  enough,  but  took 
form  in  his  two  first  heroes,  Roderick  and  Peregrine— two  of  the 
most  unmitigated  young  ruffians  who  ever  escaped  condign  punish- 
ment.     The  good-natured  and  often  quite  valid  plea  of  "  dramatic 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  259 

presentment "  will  not  avail  here ;  for  Roderick  and  Peregrine 
are  not  merely  presented  without  the  slightest  effort  on  the  part 
of  their  introducer  to  apologise  for  them,  but  the  keynote  of  both 
characters  corresponds  only  too  exactly  to  that  of  the  character  of 
the  Cr/Z/Vc?/ journalist,  the  traveller  in  France  and  Italy,  and  the 
chronicler  of  the  A/oiii.  When  to  this  drawback  is  added  the 
others  above  referred  to,  especially  the  almost  total  absence  of 
construction,  and  of  what  may  be  called  projection  of  character, 
in  the  earlier  novels,  it  becomes  tolerably  easy  to  understand  why 
Smollett  has  not  on  the  whole  been  a  favourite  with  critics,  and 
why  he  pleases  far  more  at  a  first,  especially  an  early  and  un- 
fastidious  reading,  than  at  nicer  reperusal  in  later  years. 

Yet  no  estimate  which  refused  him  a  very  high  place  among 
those  who  do  not  attain  the  highest  would  be  either  critical  or 
generous.  The  profusion  of  scene  and  incident  which  led  Scott 
into  the  undoubted  blunder  of  ascribing  to  Smollett  "more 
brilliancy  of  genius  and  more  inexhaustible  fertility  of  invention  " 
than  to  Fielding,  as  well  as  into  the  particular  oddity  of  preferring 
Fcrdina/id,  Count  Fathom^  iojonaf/ta/i  Wild,  is  real  and  wonderful, 
while  the  naval  personages  in  both  Roderick  Rn/idoiii  and 
Peregrine  Pickle,  the  scenes  on  shipboard  in  the  fomier  novel,  the 
"Roman  dinner"  in  the  latter,  the  forest  adventures  of  Fathom, 
and  even  not  a  few  passages  in  that  rather  unjustly  depreciated 
book  Sir  Laiincclot  Greaves,  remain  as  masterpieces  of  their  kind. 
If  Smollett  adds  nothing  to  the  pillar- to -post  manner  of  the 
Spaniards  and  of  Le  Sage  he  is  a  thorough  adept  in  it,  and 
succeeds  in  holding  the  reader's  interest  perhaps  better  than  any 
of  them.  And  if  he  never  communicates  to  any  character,  much 
less  to  any  story,  the  subtle  truth  and  nature  of  which  Fielding 
was  a  master,  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  any  of  his  characters  are 
distinctly  untrue  or  lacking  in  life.  Nor  did  his  plans  and 
schemes  lack  a  general  verisimilitude  save  only  in  the  singular 
crotchet  which  made  him  attribute  to  his  Sir  Launcelot  the  actual 
costume  and  procedure  as  well  as  the  crazes  and  virtues  of  Don 
Quixote. 

There  can,  however,  be  very  little  doubt  that  if  he  had  left 
nothing  but  Humphry  Clinker,  though  the  body  and  variety  of 
delight  which  he  would  have  given  to  readers  would  have  l^ecn 
much  less,  his  literary  standing  would  have  been  higher.  In  this 
charming  book  his  defects  appear  softened  and  his  merits 
heightened  in  a  way  difficult  to  parallel   elsewhere  in  any  single 


26o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


work  of  a  voluminous  and  strongly-gifted  author.  Hardly  any 
novel  better  carries  off  the  too  frequently  troublesome  and 
teasing  scheme  of  epistolary  narrative ;  the  false  spelling  of 
Winifred  Jenkins  if  it  is  only  farce,  and  rather  facile  farce,  is 
excellently  funny,  and  has  never  been  so  well  done  by  any  one 
except  by  Thackeray  who  copied  it ;  the  stream  of  loosely  con- 
nected adventure  never  flags  or  becomes  monotonous  ;  while  here, 
and  perhaps  here  only,  Smollett  has  really  created  characters  as 
well  as  "  humours."  Bramble  and  Lismahago  by  common  consent 
need  not  fear  to  hold  their  heads  up  (a  process  to  which  both 
were  well  inclined)  in  any  fictitious  company  ;  and  the  others  are 
not  far  behind  them.  Such  an  increase  of  mellowness  and  art 
with  such  a  maintenance  of  vigour  and  resource  are  indeed  rare 
in  the  work  of  a  hack  of  letters  who  has  been  writing  at  full  speed 
and  on  almost  every  subject  for  nearly  five  and  twenty  years. 

It  has  not  seemed  necessary  in  the  brief  space  available  here 
to  draw  on  anything  except  the  novels.  The  History,  still  venal 
at  every  stall  and  obvious  on  many  shelves,  is  but  hack-work, 
and  not  eminent  hack-work  of  its  kind,  though  it  is  very  fairly 
written.  Indeed  Smollett  is,  as  regards  the  mechanical  minutenesses 
of  composition,  a  very  careful  and  correct  craftsman.  The  criticism 
has  the  same  drawback,  not  to  mention  that  Smollett  was 
one  of  those  who  mistake  criticism  for  fault-finding,  and  who 
confuse  the  scholarly  with  the  vulgar  meaning  of  "  censure." 
The  Travels  though  not  contemptible  are  too  ill-tempered,  too 
ambitious,  and  too  much  stuffed  with  guide-book  detail ;  and  I 
am  sure  that  no  one  who  has  twice  read  the  ferocious  nastiness 
of  the  Adve7ifures  of  an  Atom  would  feel  tempted  to  cull  from 
them.  Nature  had  made  Smollett  a  novelist  ;  only  necessity, 
assisted  by  ill-health  and  ill-temper,  made  him  a  miscellaneous 
writer.  So  let  us  take  the  advice  of  a  creation  of  his  greatest 
follower  and  "make  the  best  of  him,  not  the  worst." 


George  Saintseury. 


RODERICK  AT  SURGEON'S  HALL 

With  the  assistance  of  this  faithful  adherent,  who  gave  me  ahnost 
all  the  money  he  earned,  I  preserved  my  half-guinea  entire  till 
the  day  of  examination,  when  I  went  with  a  quaking  heart  to 
Surgeon's  Hall,  in  order  to  undergo  that  ceremony.  Among  the 
crowd  of  young  fellows  who  walked  in  the  outward  hall,  I  per- 
ceived Mr.  Jackson,  to  whom  I  immediately  went  up,  and  in- 
quiring into  the  state  of  his  amour,  understood  it  was  still  un- 
determined by  reason  of  his  friend's  absence,  and  the  delay  of  the 
recall  at  Chatham,  which  put  it  out  of  his  power  to  bring  it  to  a 
conclusion.  I  then  asked  what  his  business  was  in  this  place  ? 
he  replied,  he  was  resolved  to  have  two  strings  to  his  bow,  that 
in  case  the  one  failed  he  might  use  the  other  ;  and,  with  this  view, 
he  was  to  pass  that  night  for  a  higher  qualification.  At  that 
instant  a  young  fellow  came  out  from  the  place  of  examination 
with  a  pale  countenance,  his  lip  quivering,  and  his  looks  as  wild 
as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  He  no  sooner  appeared,  than  we  all 
flocked  about  him  with  the  utmost  eagerness  to  know  what  re- 
ception he  had  met  with  ;  which,  after  some  pause,  he  described, 
recounting  all  the  questions  they  had  asked,  with  the  answers  he 
made.  In  this  manner,  we  obliged  no  less  than  twelve  to  re- 
capitulate, which,  now  the  danger  was  past,  they  did  with  pleasure, 
before  it  fell  to  my  lot :  at  length  the  beadle  called  my  name, 
with  a  voice  that  made  me  tremble  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  the 
sound  of  the  last  trumpet :  however,  there  was  no  remedy  :  I  was 
conducted  into  a  large  hall,  where  I  saw  about  a  dozen  of  grim 
faces  sitting  at  a  long  table  ;  one  of  whom  bade  me  come  forward, 
in  such  an  imperious  tone  that  I  was  actually  for  a  minute  or  two 
bereft  of  my  senses.  The  first  question  he  put  to  me  was, 
"Where  was  you  born  ?"  To  which  I  answered,  "  In  Scotland." 
— "  In  Scotland,"  said  he  ;  "I  know  that  very  well  ;  we  have 
scarce  any  other  countrymen  to  examine  here  ;  you  Scotchmen 


262  ENGLISH  PROSE 


have  overspread  us  of  late  as  the  locusts  did  Egypt :  I  ask  you 
in  what  part  of  Scotland  was  you  born  ? "  I  named  the  place  of 
my  nativity,  which  he  had  never  before  heard  of:  he  then  pro- 
ceeded to  interrogate  me  about  my  age,  the  town  where  I  served 
my  time,  with  the  term  of  my  apprenticeship  ;  and  when  I  in- 
formed him  that  I  served  three  years  only,  he  fell  into  a  violent 
passion  ;  swore  it  was  a  shame  and  a  scandal  to  send  such  raw 
boys  into  the  world  as  surgeons  ;  that  it  was  a  great  presumption 
in  me,  and  an  affront  upon  the  English,  to  pretend  to  sufficient 
skill  in  my  business,  having  served  so  short  a  time,  when  every 
apprentice  in  England  was  bound  seven  years  at  least ;  that  my 
friends  would  have  done  better  if  they  had  made  me  a  weaver  or 
shoemaker,  but  their  pride  would  have  me  a  gentleman,  he  sup- 
posed, at  any  rate,  and  their  poverty  could  not  afford  the 
necessary  education.  This  exordium  did  not  at  all  contribute  to 
the  recovery  of  my  spirits,  but  on  the  contrary,  reduced  me  to  such 
a  situation  that  I  was  scarce  able  to  stand  ;  which  being  perceived 
by  a  plump  gentleman  who  sat  opposite  to  me,  with  a  skull  before 
him,  he  said,  Mr.  Snarler  was  too  severe  upon  the  young  man  ; 
and,  turning  towards  me,  told  me,  I  need  not  to  be  afraid,  for 
nobody  would  do  me  any  harm  ;  then  bidding  me  take  time  to 
recollect  myself,  he  examined  me  touching  the  operation  of  the 
trepan,  and  was  very  well  satisfied  with  my  answers.  The  next 
person  who  questioned  me  was  a  wag',  who  began  by  asking  if  I 
had  ever  seen  amputation  performed ;  and  I  replying  in  the 
affirmative,  he  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  What !  upon  a  dead 
subject,  I  suppose?  If,"  continued  he,  "during  an  engage- 
ment at  sea,  a  man  should  be  brought  to  you  with  his  head  shot 
off,  how  would  you  behave  ? "  After  some  hesitation,  I  owned 
such  a  case  had  never  come  under  my  observation,  neither  did  I 
remember  to  have  seen  any  method  of  cure  proposed  for  such  an 
accident,  in  any  of  the  systems  of  surgery  I  had  perused. 
Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  simplicity  of  my  answer,  or  the 
archness  of  the  question,  I  know  not,  but  every  member  at  the 
board  deigned  to  smile,  except  Mr.  Snarler,  who  seemed  to  have 
very  little  of  the  animal  risibile  in  his  constitution.  The  facetious 
member,  encouraged  by  the  success  of  his  last  joke,  went  on  thus  : 
"  Suppose  you  was  called  to  a  patient  of  a  plethoric  habit,  who 
had  been  bruised  by  a  fall,  what  would  you  do  ? "  I  answered, 
I  would  bleed  him  immediately.  "  What,"  said  he,  "  before  you 
had  tied  up  his  arm  ? "      But  this  stroke  of  wit  not  answering  his 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  263 

expectation,  he  desired  me  to  advance  to  the  gentleman  who  sat 
next  him ;  and  who,  with  a  pert  air,  asked  what  method  of  cure 
I  would  follow  in  wounds  of  the  intestines.  I  repeated  the  method 
of  cure  as  it  is  prescribed  by  the  best  surgical  writers  ;  which  he 
heard  to  an  end,  and  then  said,  with  a  supercilious  smile,  "  So 
you  think  by  such  treatment  the  patient  might  recover."  I  told 
him  I  saw  nothing  to  make  me  think  otherwise.  "  That  may  be," 
resumed  he,  "  I  won't  answer  for  your  foresight ;  but  did  you 
ever  know  a  case  of  this  kind  succeed  ? "  I  answered  I  did  not ; 
and  was  about  to  tell  him  I  had  never  seen  a  wounded  intestine  ; 
but  he  stopped  me,  by  saying  with  some  precipitation,  "  Nor  never 
will.  I  affirm  that  all  wounds  of  the  intestines,  whether  great  or 
small,  are  mortal." — "  Pardon  me,  brother,"  says  the  fat  gentle- 
man, "  there  is  very  good  authority "  Here  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  other  with  "  Sir,  excuse  me,  I  despise  all  authority. 
NiiUius  in  verba.  I  stand  upon  my  own  bottom."—"  But  sir, 
sir,"  replied  his  antagonist,  "  the  reason  of  the  thing  shows." — 
"  A  fig  for  reason,"  cried  this  sufficient  member,  "  I  laugdi  at 
reason,  give  me  ocular  demonstration."  The  corpulent  gentleman 
began  to  wax  warm,  and  observed,  that  no  man  acquainted  with  the 
anatomy  of  the  parts  would  advance  such  an  extravagant  assertion. 
This  inuendo  enraged  the  other  so  much,  that  he  started  up,  and 
in  a  furious  tone,  exclaimed,  "  What  sir !  do  you  question  my 
knowledge  in  anatomy  ?  "  By  this  time,  all  the  examiners  had 
espoused  the  opinion  of  one  or  other  of  the  disputants,  and  raised 
their  voices  all  together,  when  the  chairman  commanded  silence, 
and  ordered  me  to  withdraw.  In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
I  was  called  in  again,  received  my  qualification  sealed  up,  and 
was  ordered  to  pay  five  shillings.  I  laid  down  my  half-guinea 
upon  the  table,  and  stood  some  time,  until  one  of  them  bade  me 
begone  ;  to  this  I  replied,  "  I  will,  when  I  have  got  my  change ; " 
upon  which  another  threw  me  five  shillings  and  sixpence,  saying, 
I  should  not  be  a  true  Scotchman  if  I  went  away  without  my 
change.  I  was  afterwards  obliged  to  give  three  shillings  and 
sixpence  to  the  beadles,  and  a  shilling  to  an  old  woman  who 
swept  the  hall.  This  disbursement  sunk  my  finances  to  thirteen- 
pence  halfpenny,  with  which  I  was  sneaking  off,  when  Jackson, 
perceiving  it,  came  up  to  me,  and  begged  I  would  tarry  for  him, 
and  he  would  accompany  me  to  the  other  end  of  the  town,  as 
soon  as  his  examination  should  be  over.  I  could  not  refuse  this 
to  a  person  that  was  so  much  my  friend  ;  but  I  was  astonished  at 


264  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  change  of  his  dress,  which  was  varied  in  half  an  hour  from 
what  I  have  ah-eady  described,  to  a  very  grotesque  fashion.  His 
head  was  covered  with  an  old  smoked  tie-wig  that  did  not  boast 
one  crooked  hair,  and  a  slouched  hat  over  it,  which  would  have 
very  well  become  a  chimney-sweeper  or  a  dustman  ;  his  neck  was 
adorned  with  a  black  crape,  the  ends  of  which  he  had  twisted, 
and  fixed  in  the  button-hole  of  a  shabby  great-coat  that  wrapped 
up  his  whole  body  ;  his  white  silk  stockings  were  converted  into 
black  worsted  hose  ;  and  his  countenance  was  rendered  venerable 
by  wrinkles,  and  a  beard  of  his  own  painting.  When  I  e.xpressed 
my  surprise  at  this  metamorphosis,  he  laughed  and  told  me,  it 
was  done  by  the  advice  and  assistance  of  a  friend  who  lived  over 
the  way,  and  would  certainly  produce  something  very  much  to  his 
advantage  ;  for  it  gave  him  the  appearance  of  age,  which  never 
fails  of  attracting  respect.  I  applauded  his  sagacity,  and  waited 
with  impatience  for  the  effects  of  it.  At  length  he  was  called  in, 
but  whether  the  oddness  of  his  appearance  excited  a  curiosity 
more  than  usual  in  the  board,  or  his  behaviour  was  not  suitable 
to  his  figure,  I  know  not ;  he  was  discovered  to  be  an  impostor, 
and  put  into  the  hands  of  the  beadle,  in  order  to  be  sent  to 
Bridewell.  So  that  instead  of  seeing  him  come  out. with  a  cheer- 
ful countenance,  and  a  surgeon's  qualification  in  his  hand,  I  per- 
ceived him  led  through  the  outward  hall  as  a  prisoner,  and  was 
very  much  alarmed  and  anxious  to  know  the  occasion  ;  when  he 
called  with  a  lamentable  voice  and  piteous  aspect  to  me,  and 
some  others  who  knew  him,  "  For  God's  sake,  gentlemen,  bear 
witness  that  I  am  the  same  individual,  John  Jackson,  who  served 
as  surgeon's  second  mate  on  board  The  Elisabeth,  or  else  I  shall 
go  to  Bridewell."  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  the  most 
austere  hermit  that  ever  lived  to  have  refrained  from  laughing  at 
his  appearance  and  address  ;  we  therefore  indulged  ourselves  a 
good  while  at  his  expense,  and  afterwards  pleaded  his  case  so 
effectually  with  the  beadle,  who  was  gratified  with  half  a  crown, 
that  the  prisoner  was  dismissed,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  resumed 
his  former  gaiety ;  swearing,  since  the  board  had  refused  his 
money,  he  would  spend  it,  every  shilling,  before  he  went  to  bed 
in  treating  his  friends  ;  at  the  same  time  inviting  us  all  to  favour 
him  with  our  company. 

(From  Roderick  Random)) 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  265 


SIR   LAUNCELOT   IN   THE  MADHOUSE 

So  saying  he  retired,  and  our  adventurer  could  not  but  think 
it  was  very  hard  that  one  man  should  not  dare  to  ask  the  most 
ordinary  question  without  being  reputed  mad,  while  another 
should  talk  nonsense  by  the  hour,  and  yet  be  esteemed  as  an 
oracle. 

The  master  of  the  house  finding  Sir  Launcelot  so  tame  and 
tractable,  indulged  him  after  dinner  with  a  walk  in  a  little  private 
garden,  under  the  eye  of  a  servant  who  followed  him  at  a 
distance.  He  was  saluted  by  a  brother  prisoner,  a  man  seemingly 
turned  of  thirty,  tall  and  thin,  with  staring  eyes,  a  hook  nose,  and 
a  face  covered  with  pimples. 

The  usual  compliments  having  passed,  the  stranger,  without 
further  ceremony,  asked  him  if  he  would  oblige  him  with  a  chew 
of  tobacco,  or  could  spare  him  a  mouthful  of  any  sort  of  cordial, 
declaring  he  had  not  tasted  brandy  since  he  came  to  the  house. 
The  knight  assured  him  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  comply  with 
his  request,  and  began  to  ask  some  questions  relating  to  the 
character  of  their  landlord,  which  the  stranger  represented  in 
very  unfavourable  colours.  He  described  him  as  a  ruffian, 
capable  of  undertaking  the  darkest  scenes  of  villany.  He  said 
his  house  was  a  repository  of  the  most  flagrant  iniquities.  That 
it  contained  fathers  kidnapped  by  their  children,  wives  confined 
by  their  husbands,  gentlemen  of  fortune  sequestered  by  their 
relations,  and  innocent  persons  immured  by  the  malice  of  their 
adversaries.  He  affiimed  this  was  his  own  case  ;  and  asked 
if  our  hero  had  never  heard  of  Dick  Distich,  the  poet  and 
satirist.  "  Ben  Bullock  and  I,"  said  he,  "  were  confident  against 
the  world  in  arms — did  you  never  see  his  ode  to  me  beginning 
with  '  Fair  blooming  youth ' .''  We  were  sworn  brothers, 
admired  and  praised,  and  quoted  each  other,  sir.  We  denounced 
war  against  all  the  world,  actors,  authors,  and  critics  ;  and  having 
drawn  the  sword,  threw  away  the  scabbard — we  pushed  through 
thick  and  thin,  hacked  and  hewed  helter-skelter,  and  became  as 
formidable  to  the  writers  of  the  age  as  the  Bceotian  band  of 
Thebes.  My  friend  Bullock,  indeed,  was  once  rolled  in  the 
kennel  ;  but  soon 

He  vig'rous  rose,  and  from  th'  effluvia  strong 
Imbib'd  new  life,  and  scour'd  and  stunk  along. 


266  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Here  is  a  satire  which  I  wrote  in  an  ale-house  when  I  was 
drunk — I  can  prove  it  by  the  evidence  of  the  landlord  and  his 
wife  ;  I  fancy  you'll  own  I  have  some  right  to  say  with  my 
friend  Horace : 

Qui  mecommorit,  (melius  non  tangere  clamo,) 
Flebit,  et  insignis  tola  cantabitur  urbe." 

The  knight,  having  perused  the  papers,  declared  his  opinion 
that  the  verses  were  tolerably  good ;  but  at  the  same  time 
observed  that  the  author  had  reviled  as  ignorant  dunces  several 
persons  who  had  writ  with  reputation,  and  were  generally  allowed 
to  have  genius.  A  circumstance  which  would  detract  more  from 
his  candour  than  could  be  allowed  to  his  capacity. 

"  D their  genius  !  "  cried  the  satirist ;  "  a  pack  of  imper- 
tinent rascals.  I  tell  you,  sir,  Ben  Bullock  and  I  had  determined 
to  crush  all  that  were  not  of  our  own  party.  Besides,  I  said 
before,  this  piece  was  written  in  drink." — ^"Was  you  drunk  too 
when  it  was  printed  and  published?" — "Yes,  the  printer  shall 
make  affidavit  that  I  was  never  otherwise  than  drunk  or  maudlin, 
till  my  enemies,  on  pretence  that  my  brain  was  turned,  conveyed 
me  to  this  infernal  mansion " 

"  They  seem  to  have  been  your  best  friends,"  said  the  knight, 
"and  have  put  the  most  tender  interpretation  on  your  conduct  ; 
for,  waiving  the  plea  of  insanity,  your  character  must  stand  as 
that  of  a  man  who  hath  some  small  share  of  genius,  without  an 
atom  of  integrity.  Of  all  those  whom  Pope  lashed  in  his 
Dunciad,  there  was  not  one  who  did  not  richly  desei-ve  the 
imputation  of  dulness,  and  every  one  of  them  had  provoked  the 
satirist  by  a  personal  attack.  In  this  respect  the  English  poet 
was  much  more  honest  than  his  French  pattern  Boileau,  who 
stigmatised  several  men  of  acknowledged  genius,  such  as  Quinault, 
Perrault,  and  the  celebrated  Lulli  ;  for  which  reason  every  man  of  a 
liberal  turn  must,  in  spite  of  all  his  poetical  merit,  despise  him  as 
a  rancorous  knave.  If  this  disingenuous  conduct  cannot  be 
forgiven  in  a  writer  of  his  superior  genius,  who  will  pardon  it  in 
you  whose  name  is  not  half-emerged  from  obscurity  ?  " 

"  Hark  ye,  my  friend,"  replied  the  bard,  "  keep  your  pardon 
and  your  counsel  for  those  who  ask  it ;  or  if  you  will  force  them 
upon  people,  take  one  piece  of  advice  in  return.  If  you  don't 
like  your  present  situation,  apply  for  a  committee  without  delay. 
They'll  find  you  too  much  of  a  fool  to  have  the  least  tincture  of 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  267 


madness,  and  you'll  be  released  without  further  scruple.  In  that 
case  I  shall  rejoice  in  your  deliverance,  and  you  will  be  freed 
from  confinement,  and  I  shall  be  happily  deprived  of  your 
conversation." 

So  saying,  he  flew  off  at  a  tangent,  and  our  knight  could  not 
help  smiling  at  the  peculiar  virulence  of  his  disposition.  Sir 
Launcelot  then  endeavoured  to  enter  into  conversation  with  his 
attendant,  by  asking  how  long  Mr.  Distich  had  resided  in  the 
house  ;  but  he  might  as  well  have  addressed  himself  to  a  Turkish 
mute.  The  fellow  either  pretended  ignorance,  or  refused  an 
answer  to  every  question  that  was  proposed.  He  would  not  even 
disclose  the  name  of  his  landlord,  nor  inform  him  whereabouts 
the  house  was  situated. 

Finding  himself  agitated  with  impatience  and  indignation,  he 
returned  to  his  apartment,  and  the  door  being  locked  upon  him, 
began  to  review,  not  without  horror,  the  particulars  of  his  fate. 
"  How  little  reason,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  have  we  to  boast  of  the 
blessings  enjoyed  by  the  British  subject,  if  he  holds  them  on  such 
a  precarious  tenure  ;  if  a  man  of  rank  and  property  may  be  thus 
kidnapped  even  in  the  midst  of  the  capital  ;  if  he  may  be  seized 
by  ruffians,  insulted,  robbed,  and  conveyed  to  such  a  prison  as 
this,  from  which  there  seems  to  be  no  possibility  of  escape. 
Should  I  be  indulged  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  appeal  to  my 
relations,  or  to  the  magistrates  of  my  countiy,  my  letters  would 
be  intercepted  by  those  who  superintend  my  confinement. 
Should  I  try  to  alarm  the  neighbourhood,  my  cries  would  be 
neglected  as  those  of  some  unhappy  lunatic  under  necessary 
correction.  Should  I  employ  the  force  which  Heaven  has  lent 
me,  I  might  imbrue  my  hands  in  blood,  and  after  all  find  it 
impossible  to  escape  through  a  number  of  successive  doors,  locks, 
bolts,  and  sentinels.  Should  I  endeavour  to  tamper  with  the 
servant,  he  might  discover  my  design,  and  then  I  should  be 
abridged  of  the  little  comfort  I  enjoy.  People  may  inveigh 
against  the  Bastile  in  France,  and  the  Inquisition  in  Portugal  ; 
but  I  would  ask,  if  either  of  these  be  in  reality  so  dangerous  or 
dreadful  as  a  private  madhouse  in  England,  under  the  direction 
of  a  ruffian  ?  The  Bastile  is  a  state  prison,  the  Inquisition  is  a 
spiritual  tribunal  ;  but  both  are  under  the  direction  of  a  govern- 
ment. It  seldom,  if  ever,  happens  that  a  man  entirely  innocent 
is  confined  in  either  ;  or,  if  he  should,  he  lays  his  account  with  a 
legal  trial  before  established  judges.     But,  in  England,  the  most 


268  ENGLISH  PROSE 


innocent  person  upon  earth  is  liable  to  be  immured  for  life  under 
the  pretext  of  lunacy,  sequestered  from  his  wife,  children,  and 
friends,  robbed  of  his  fortune,  deprived  even  of  necessaries,  and 
subjected  to  the  most  brutal  treatment  from  a  low-bred  barbarian, 
who  raises  an  ample  fortune  on  the  misery  of  his  fellow-creatures, 
and  may,  during  his  whole  life,  practise  this  horrid  oppression, 
without  question  or  control." 

This  uncomfortable  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  very  un- 
expected sound  that  seemed  to  issue  from  the  other  side  of  a 
thick  party-wall.  It  was  a  strain  of  vocal  music,  more  plaintive 
than  the  widowed  turtle's  moan,  more  sweet  and  ravishing  than 
Philomel's  love-warbled  song.  Through  his  ear  it  instantly 
pierced  into  his  heart ;  for  at  once  he  recognised  it  to  be  the 
voice  of  his  adored  Aurelia.  Heavens  !  what  the  agitation  of  his 
soul,  when  he  made  this  discovery  !  how  did  every  nerve  quiver ! 
how  did  his  heart  throb  with  the  most  violent  emotion  !  he  ran 
round  the  room  in  distraction,  foaming  like  a  lion  in  the  toil — 
then  he  placed  his  ear  close  to  the  partition,  and  listened  as  if 
his  whole  soul  was  exerted  in  his  sense  of  hearing.  When  the 
sound  ceased  to  vibrate  on  his  ear,  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed  ; 
he  groaned  with  anguish,  he  exclaimed  in  broken  accents  ;  and 
in  all  probability  his  heart  would  have  burst,  had  not  the  violence 
of  his  sorrow  found  vent  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

These  first  transports  were  succeeded  by  a  fit  of  impatience, 
which  had  well  nigh  deprived  him  of  his  senses  in  good  earnest. 
His  surprise  at  finding  his  lost  Aurelia  in  such  a  place,  the 
seeming  impossibility  of  relieving  her,  and  his  unspeakable 
eagerness  to  contrive  some  scheme  for  pi'ofiting  by  the  interesting 
discovery  he  had  made,  concurred  in  brewing  up  a  second 
ecstasy,  during  which  he  acted  a  thousand  extravagancies,  which 
it  was  well  for  him  the  attendants  did  not  observe.  Perhaps  it 
was  well  for  the  servant  that  he  did  not  enter  while  the  paroxysm 
prevailed.  Had  this  been  the  case,  he  might  have  met  with  the 
fate  of  Lychas,  whom  Hercules  in  his  frenzy  destroyed. 

Before  the  cloth  was  laid  for  supper,  he  was  calm  enough 
to  conceal  the  disorder  of  his  mind.  But  he  complained  of  the 
headache,  and  desired  he  might  be  next  day  visited  by  the 
physician,  to  whom  he  resolved  to  explain  himself  in  such  a 
manner,  as  should  make  an  impression  upon  him,  provided  he 
was  not  altogether  destitute  of  conscience  and  humanity. 

(From  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves.') 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  269 


THE  CHEERFUL  SOCIETY  OF  BATH 

Dear  Lewis — I  received  your  bill  upon  Wiltshire,  which  was 
punctually  honoured  ;  but,  as  I  don't  choose  to  keep  so  much 
cash  by  me  in  a  common  lodging-house,  I  have  deposited  ^{^250 
in  the  bank  of  Bath,  and  shall  take  their  bills  for  it  on  London, 
when  I  leave  this  place,  where  the  season  draws  to  an  end.  You 
must  know  that  now  being  afoot,  I  am  resolved  to  give  Liddy  a 
glimpse  of  London.  She  is  one  of  the  best-hearted  creatures  I 
ever  knew,  and  gains  upon  my  affection  every  day.  As  for  Tabby, 
I  have  dropped  such  hints  to  the  Irish  baronet,  concerning  her 
fortune,  as,  I  make  no  doubt,  will  cool  the  ardour  of  his  addresses. 
Then  her  pride  will  take  the  alarm  ;  and  the  rancour  of  stale 
maidenhood  being  chafed,  we  shall  hear  nothing  but  slander  and 
abuse  of  Sir  Ulic  Mackilligut.  This  rupture,  I  foresee,  will 
facilitate  our  departure  from  Bath  ;  where,  at  present.  Tabby 
seems  to  enjoy  herself  with  peculiar  satisfaction.  For  my  part,  I 
detest  it  so  much,  that  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  stay  so 
long  in  the  place,  if  I  had  not  discovered  some  old  friends,  whose 
conversation  alleviates  my  disgust.  Going  to  the  coffee-house  one 
forenoon,  I  could  not  help  contemplating  the  company,  with 
equal  surprise  and  compassion.  We  consisted  of  thirteen  indi- 
viduals :  seven  lamed  by  the  gout,  rheumatism,  or  palsy  ;  three 
maimed  by  accident  ;  and  the  rest  either  deaf  or  blind.  One 
hobbled,  another  hopped,  a  third  dragged  his  legs  after  him  like 
a  wounded  snake,  a  fourth  straddled  betwixt  a  pair  of  long 
crutches,  like  the  mummy  of  a  felon  hanging  in  chains  ;  a  fifth  was 
bent  into  a  horizontal  position,  like  a  mounted  telescope,  shoved 
in  by  a  couple  of  chairmen  ;  and  a  sixth  was  the  bust  of  a  man,  set 
upright  in  a  wheel  machine,  which  the  waiter  moved  from  place 
to  place. 

Being  struck  with  some  of  their  faces,  I  consulted  the  sub- 
scription-book ;  and,  perceiving  the  names  of  several  old  friends, 
began  to  consider  the  group  with  more  attention.  At  length  I 
discovered  Rear-Admiral  Balderick,  the  companion  of  my  youth, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  since  he  was  appointed  lieutenant  of  the 
Severn.  He  was  metamorphosed  into  an  old  man,  with  a  wooden 
leg  and  a  weather-beaten  face  ;  which  appeared  the  more  ancient 
from  his  grey  locks,  that  were  truly  venerable.  Sitting  down  at 
the  table,  where  he  was  reading  a  newspaper,  I  gazed  at  him  for 


270  ENGLISH  PROSE 


some  minutes,  with  a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  regret,  which  made 
my    heart    gush     with     tenderness ;    then,    taking    him    by    the 

hand,  "  Ah  Sam,"  said  I,  "  forty  years  ago  I  httle  thought "      I 

was  too  much  moved  to  proceed.  "  An  old  friend,  sure  enough  1 " 
cried  he,  squeezing  my  hand,  and  surveying  me  eagerly  through 
his  glasses  ;  "  I  know  the  looming  of  the  vessel,  though  she  has 
been  hard  strained  since  we  parted  ;  but  I  can't  heave  up  the 
name."  The  moment  I  told  him  who  I  was,  he  exclaimed,  "  Ha  ! 
Matt,  my  old  fellow-cruiser,  still  afloat  !  "  and  starting  up,  hugged 
me  in  his  arms.  His  transport,  however,  boded  me  no  good  ; 
for,  in  saluting  me,  he  thrust  the  spring  of  his  spectacles  into  my 
eye,  and,  at  the  same  time,  set  his  wooden  stump  upon  my  gouty 
toe  ;  an  attack  that  made  me  shed  tears  in  sad  earnest.  After 
the  hurry  of  our  recognition  was  over,  he  pointed  out  two  of  our 
common  friends  in  the  room.  The  bust  was  what  remained  of 
Colonel  Cockril,  who  had  lost  the  use  of  his  limbs  in  making  an 
American  campaign  ;  and  the  telescope  proved  to  be  my  college 
chum,  Sir  Reginald  Bentley,  who,  with  his  new  title  and  unex- 
pected inheritance,  commenced  fox-hunter,  without  having  served 
his  apprenticeship  in  the  mystery  ;  and  in  consequence  of  follow- 
ing the  hounds  through  a  river,  was  seized  with  an  inflammation 
in  his  bowels,  which  has  contracted  him  into  his  present  attitude. 

Our  former  correspondence  was  forthwith  renewed,  with  the 
most  hearty  expressions  of  mutual  goodwill  ;  and  as  we  had  met 
so  unexpectedly,  we  agreed  to  dine  together  that  very  day  at  the 
tavern.  My  friend  Quin,  being  luckily  unengaged,  obliged  us 
with  his  company  ;  and,  truly,  this  was  the  most  happy  day  I 
have  passed  these  twenty  years.  You  and  I,  Lewis,  having  been 
always  together,  never  tasted  friendship  in  this  high  gout,  con- 
tracted from  long  absence.  I  cannot  express  the  half  of  what  1 
felt  at  this  casual  meeting  of  three  or  four  companions,  who  had 
been  so  long  separated,  and  so  roughly  treated  by  the  storms  of 
life.  It  was  a  renovation  of  youth  ;  a  kind  of  resuscitation  of  the 
dead,  that  realised  those  interesting  dreams  in  which  we  some- 
times retrieve  our  ancient  friends  from  the  grave.  Perhaps,  my 
enjoyment  was  not  the  less  pleasing  for  being  mixed  with  a  strain 
of  melancholy,  produced  by  the  remembrance  of  past  scenes,  that 
conjured  up  the  ideas  of  some  endearing  connections,  which  the 
hand  of  death  has  actually  dissolved. 

The  spirits  and  good-humour  of  the  company  seemed  to 
triumph  over  the   wreck  of  their  constitutions.      They  had  even 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  rji 

philosophy  enough  to  joke  upon  their  own  calamities  ;  such  is  the 
power  of  friendship,  the  sovereign  cordial  of  life.  I  afterwards 
found,  however,  that  they  were  not  without  their  moments  and 
even  hours  of  disquiet.  Each  of  them  apart,  in  succeeding  con- 
ferences, expatiated  upon  his  own  particular  grievances  ;  and  they 
were  all  malcontents  at  bottom.  Over  and  above  their  personal 
disasters,  they  thought  themselves  unfortunate  in  the  lottery  of 
life.  Balderick  complained,  that  all  the  recompense  he  had  re- 
ceived for  his  long  and  hard  service  was  the  half-pay  of  a  rear- 
admiral.  The  Colonel  was  mortified  to  see  himself  overtopped 
by  upstart  generals,  some  of  whom  he  had  once  commanded  ;  and, 
being  a  man  of  a  liberal  turn,  could  ill  put  up  with  a  moderate 
annuity,  for  which  he  had  sold  his  commission.  As  for  the  baronet, 
having  run  himself  considerably  in  debt,  on  a  contested  election, 
he  has  been  obliged  to  relinquish  his  seat  in  Parliament,  and 
his  seat  in  the  country  at  the  same  time,  and  put  his  estate  to 
nurse.  But  his  chagrin,  which  is  the  effect  of  his  own  miscon- 
duct, does  not  affect  me  half  so  much  as  that  of  the  other  two, 
who  have  acted  honourable  and  distinguished  parts  on  the  great 
theatre,  and  are  now  reduced  to  lead  a  weary  life  in  this  stewpan 
of  idleness  and  insignificance.  They  have  long  left  off  using  the 
waters,  after  having  experienced  their  inefficacy.  The  diversions 
of  the  place  they  arc  not  in  a  condition  to  enjoy.  How  then  do 
they  make  shift  to  pass  their  time  ?  In  the  forenoon  they  crawl 
out  to  the  rooms  or  the  coffee-house,  where  they  take  a  hand  at 
whist,  or  descant  upon  the  General  Advertiser  ;  and  their  even- 
ings they  murder  in  private  parties,  among  peevish  invalids,  and 
insipid  old  women.  This  is  the  case  with  a  good  number  of  in- 
dividuals, whom  nature  seems  to  have  intended  for  better  purposes. 
About  a  dozen  years  ago,  many  decent  families,  restricted  to 
small  fortunes,  besides  those  that  came  hither  on  the  score  of 
health,  were  tempted  to  settle  at  Bath,  where  they  could  then 
live  comfortably,  and  even  make  a  genteel  appearance  at  a  small 
expense.  But  the  madness  of  the  times  has  made  the  place  too 
hot  for  them,  and  they  are  now  obliged  to  think  of  other  migra- 
tions. Some  have  already  fled  to  the  mountains  of  Wales,  and 
others  have  retired  to  Exeter.  Thither,  no  doubt,  they  will  be 
followed  by  the  flood  of  luxury  and  extravagance,  which  will  drive 
them  from  place  to  place  to  the  very  Land's  End  ;  and  there,  I 
suppose,  they  will  be  obliged  to  ship  themselves  to  some  other 
country.     Bath  is  become  a  mere  sink  of  profligacy  and  extortion. 


272  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Every  article  of  housekeeping  is  raised  to  an  enonnous  price  ;  a 
circumstance  no  longer  to  be  wondered  at,  when  we  know  that 
every  -petty  retainer  of  fortune  piques  himself  upon  keeping  a 
table,  and  thinks  it  is  for  the  honour  of  his  character  to  wink  at 
the  knavery  of  his  servants,  who  are  in  a  confederacy  with  the 
market-people,  and  of  consequence  pay  whatever  they  demand. 
Here  is  now  a  mushroom  of  opulence,  who  pays  a  cook  seventy 
guineas  a-week  for  furnishing  him  with  one  meal  a-day.  This  por- 
tentous frenzy  is  become  so  contagious,  that  the  very  rabble  and 
refuse  of  mankind  are  infected.  I  have  known  a  negro-driver 
from  Jamaica,  pay  over-night,  to  the  master  of  one  of  the  rooms, 
sixty-five  guineas  for  tea  and  coffee  to  the  company,  and  leave 
Bath  next  morning,  in  such  obscurity,  that  not  one  of  his  guests 
had  the  slightest  idea  of  his  person,  or  even  made  the  least 
inquiry  about  his  name.  Incidents  of  this  kind  are  frequent  ;  and 
every  day  teems  with  such  absurdities,  which  are  too  gross  to 
make  a  thinking  man  merry.  But  I  feel  the  spleen  creeping 
upon  me  apace,  and  therefore  will  indulge  you  with  a  cessation, 
that  you  may  have  no  unnecessary  cause  to  curse  your  correspond- 
ence with,  dear  Dick — Yours  ever.  Matt  Bramble. 

Bath,  May  5. 

(From  TIic  Expcdiiiojj  of  Humphry  Clinker^ 


WILLIAM    ROBERTSON 


[William  Robertson,  historian  of  Scotland,  America,  and  Charles  V.,  was 
born  on  19th  September  1721  at  his  father's  manse,  Borthwick,  Midlothian. 
He  studied  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  was 
ordained  minister  of  the  Parish  of  Gladsmuir,  East  Lothian.  He  was  from  the 
first  an  earnest  student  ;  and,  while  a  faithful  pastor,  threw  himself  into  the 
ecclesiastical  politics  of  the  day.  By  his  thirtieth  year  he  had  made  his  mark  in 
the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and  soon  became  one  of  the 
recognised  leaders  of  the  Moderate,  as  opposed  to  the  Evangelical  and  Anti- 
Patronage  Party.  The  publication  of  his  first  work,  The  History  of  Scot- 
land, brought  him  at  once  fame  and  preferment.  He  was  appointed  in  rapid 
succession  joint-minister  of  Greyfriars'  Church,  Edinburgh,  Royal  Chaplain, 
Principal  of  Edinburgh  University,  and  King's  Historiographer.  His  History 
of  the  Reigii  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  appeared  in  1769,  and  his  History  of 
America  in  1777.  In  Edinburgh  he  enjoyed  the  society  of  a  remarkable 
circle  of  men  of  letters,  which  included  Hume,  Blair,  Adam  Smith,  and 
"  Jupiter  "  Carlyle,  and  took  his  full  share  of  the  social  pleasures  of  the  time. 
His  later  life  was  uneventful.  From  the  publication  of  his  History  of  America 
till  his  death  in  1793  ^^  wrote  nothing  of  moment,  except  An  Historical  Dis- 
quisition concer)iing  the  Knowledge  which  the  Ancients  had  of  India,  which 
appeared  in  1791.] 

By  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  Robertson  was 
beginning  to  write,  Scotland  had  begun  to  feel  the  beneficent 
effect  of  the  Union  with  England,  both  in  the  expansion  of  trade 
and  in  the  liberation  of  thought.  Comparative  wealth  had 
created  a  fit  medium  for  intellectual  production.  The  only  check 
upon  the  growth  of  a  literature  at  once  Scottish  and  cosmopolitan 
was  the  want  of  a  literary  vernacular.  Scotland  had  not  indeed 
been  lacking  in  great  writers  who  had  gained  the  ear  of  the 
world.  But  all  had  been  obliged  to  make  use  of  a  foreign 
language  to  reach  readers  beyond  the  seas  or  across  the  border. 
The  time  was  now  ripe  for  Scotland  to  enter  into  literary  partner- 
ship with  England.  It  is  the  distinctive  merit  of  Robertson  and 
his  contemporaries  that  they  entered  the  partnership  on  ecjual  terms; 
VOL.  IV  T 


274  ENGLISH  PROSE 

if  they  had  to  borrow  their  language  from  England,  they  paid  the 
debt  with  interest  by  virtue  of  the  importance  and  originality  of 
their  first  contributions  to  the  joint  stock.  In  at  least  the 
three  departments  of  political  science,  political  economy,  and 
history,  Scotland's  output  in  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century  was 
both  larger  and  intrinsically  richer  than  England's.  Robertson,  a 
studious  country  clergyman,  living  within  an  easy  distance  of  the 
capital,  enjoyed  the  intimate  friendship  of  David  Hume,  Adam 
Smith,  John  Home,  Adam  Ferguson,  and  the  others  who  formed 
its  select  intellectual  and  convivial  society.  He  does  not  appear 
to  have  hesitated  over  his  choice  of  a  ]iu'ticr\rv  letters.  Tempera- 
ment impelled  him  to  action  rather  than  reflection.  So  much 
may  be  gathered  from  his  escapade  in  the  '45,  as  well  as  from  his 
career  as  an  ecclesiastical  leader.  At  all  events,  it  seems 
natural  that  histoiy,  not  philosophy,  should  have  been  selected 
as  his  field  for  achieving  literary  distinction  by  the  young 
■  minister  who  left  his  country  manse  to  volunteer  for  the  defence 
of  Edinburgh  against  Prince  Charles  Edward,  and  offered  his 
services  to  the  commander  of  the  King's  troops  at  Haddington 
before  the  rout  of  Prestonpans.  He  was  a  keen  student  from  the 
first.  His  early  commonplace  books  have  the  motto  vita  sine 
Uteris  7nors  est.  The  labour  of  his  preparations  for  writing  was  pro- 
digious as  compared  with  Hume's  in  the  same  line.  It  is 
universally  acknowledged  that  he  made  the  best  use  of  the 
materials  available  in  his  day,  and  he  took  what  his  age  considered 
exceptional  pains  to  discover  all  sources  of  information.  He  had, 
in  the  first  instance,  moreover,  to  form  a  style,  and  for  this  purpose 
he  studied  the  best  models.  It  is  probable  that  Swift  and  Defoe 
furnished  him  with  the  English  woof  for  his  purely  classical  warp, 
and  he  doubtless  owed  his  facility  of  expression  cjuite  as  much  to  the 
meetings  of  the  Poker  Cliib,  which  he  attended,  as  to  the  debates  in 
the  Church  courts  in  which  he  took  a  leading  part.  Association  with 
Hume,  too,  must  have  been  of  inestimable  advantage  to  Robertson. 
It  has  been  said  of  him,  with  truth,  that  he  was  one  of  the  first  to 
discover  the  importance  of  general  ideas  in  history.  And,  while 
it  would  be  unfair  to  say  that  he  borrowed  the  habit  of  taking 
large  views  from  the  philosophers  of  his  circle,  he  must  have  been 
greatly  influenced  by  their — and  particularly  by  Hume's — manner 
of  considering  everything  from  the  root  upwards.  So  much  may 
be  said  without  disparagement  of  his  originality  ;  the  fact  that  he 
does  not  appear  to  have  appreciated  the  far-reaching   effect    of 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  275 

Hume's   conclusions   almost    compels    the    inference    that,    as    a 
thinker,  he  was  an  imitator  rather  than  a  pioneer. 

It  would  be  to  little  purpose  to  look  further  outside  the  closet 
for  factors  of  influence  on  either  the  form  or  the  contents  of 
Robertson's  work.  We  fail  to  discover  in  his  later  writings  any 
symptoms  of  the  change  in  his  manner  of  living  which  followed  on 
his  translation  to  Edinburgh  and  his  elevation  to  the  headship  of 
the  University  and  leadership  in  the  Church,  with  the  concomitant 
large  increase  of  income  and  entanglement  in  ecclesiastical  intrigue. 
It  was  the  spirit  of  the  young  volunteer  of  '45  that  prompted 
Robertson's  defence  of  John  Home,  author  of  Douglas,  and  of 
Alexander  Carlyle,  who  boldly  went  to  the  theatre  to  see  the  play 
perfomied,  against  the  "  High-flyers  "  with  their  hostility  to  such 
"  deceitful  vanities  "  as  the  drama.  If  Robertson  latterly  devel- 
oped faults  such  as  garrulity,  over-fondness  for  generalisation  on 
insufficient  grounds,  and  the  trick  of  skimming  his  friends'  talk 
and  giving  it  back  to  them  in  polished  paraphrase,  these  failings, 
which  are  by  no  means  extenuated  by  his  admirer  Carlyle,  did  not 
affect  his  writing. 

Robertson's  work  has  been  superseded,  but  those  who  have 
come  after  him  in  his  chosen  fields  have  not  been  able — even  if 
they  can  be  said  to  have  tried — to  magnify  their  own  labours  by 
disparaging  his.  His  case  is  fully  covered  by  Mark  Pattison's 
generalisation  : — "  Ideas  change,  the  whole  mode  and  manner  of 
looking  at  things  alter  with  every  age  ;  and  so  every  generation 
requires  facts  to  be  recast  in  its  own  mould,  demands  the  history 
of  its  forefathers  be  written  from  its  own  point  of  view."  The 
Scottish  historian  whose  historical  learning  satisfied  Gibbon,  and 
whose  philosophy  of  history  commanded  the  elocjuent  admiration 
of  Burke,  keeps  his  place  in  literature  as  a  master  of  his  special 
art.  Subsequent  discoveries  have,  indeed,  taken  from  the 
authority  of  his  works.  As  books  of  reference  they  are  out  of 
date.  Thus  the  Spanish  writers  on  whom  he  had  mainly  to 
depend  for  his  History  of  America  proved  untrustworthy  guides, 
and  Prescott  has  pointed  out  that  the  industry  of  scholars  of  the 
same  nation  has,  since  Robertson's  day,  collected  important 
materials  which,  had  they  been  accessible,  would  have  modified  his 
views  to  a  considerable  extent.  Similarly  the  history  of  Scotland 
has  had  to  be  rewritten,  though  Robertson's  work,  which  ran 
through  fourteen  editions  in  his  lifetime,  still  finds  readers  ;  and 
his  Charles  tJie  Fifth  has  not  stood  the  test  of  time,  though  the 


276  ENGLISH  PROSE 

view  of  The  Progress  of  Society  in  Europe  which  is  prefixed  to  it, 
keeps  its  position  as  a  masterly  sketch,  distinguished  by  both 
rapidity  and  breadth.  As  an  authoritative  historian,  Robertson 
may  be  summed  up  in  Buckle's  words,  "  what  he  effected  with  his 
materials  was  wonderful." 

Robertson's  style  is  essentially  a  made  one.  Dugald  Stewart, 
who  was  near  enough  to  the  rise  of  a  purely  English  literature  in 
Scotland  to  appreciate  the  difficulties  associated  with  it,  gives  the 
most  reasonable  explanation  of  Robertson's  characteristic  manner 
when  he  says  that  the  historian  was,  by  his  distance  from  the 
acknowledged  standard  of  elegance,  naturally  led  to  evade  the 
hazardous  use  of  idiomatical  phrases  by  the  employment  of  such 
as  accord  with  the  general  analogy  of  language.  In  other  words 
Robertson,  writing  in  a  strange  tongue,  had  no  living  standard  of 
correctness  by  which  to  regulate  his  use  of  words  and  phrases. 
The  pitch  of  elegance  as  a  writer  which  he  actually  attained  is 
proof  at  once  of  his  talent  and  of  the  utility  of  the  method  which 
he  employed.  Taken  at  his  best,  in  narrative,  Robertson  is 
admirable.  His  prose  flows  easily,  carrying  the  reader  along 
by  the  studied  but  concealed  art  by  which  one  sentence  is  made 
to  seem  the  necessary  sequel  to  its  predecessor.  The  general 
style  is,  indeed,  too  smooth  for  modern  taste.  As  Robertson  never 
allowed  himself  to  pass  a  certain  limit  of  fervency  in  his  sermons, 
through  fear  of  being  dubbed  "  Highflyer,"  so  he  always  wrote,  so 
to  speak,  with  the  drag  on.  His  facts  are  skilfully  marshalled  in 
their  proper  sequence  ;  his  tone  is  kept  exceptionally  low.  In 
passages  which  have  been  held  up  to  admiration,  such  as  the  story 
of  Rizzio's  death,  one  misses  a  life-giving  dramatic  touch  ;  the 
style  is  stately  but  lacks  vivacity  ;  the  writer,  instead  of  present- 
ing a  vivid  picture  with  the  help  of  the  natural  phraseology  of 
passion,  falls  back  upon  "  the  analogy  of  language."  The  best 
quality  of  Robertson's  style  is  its  easy  motion.  He  constantly 
strives  after  grace  and  dignity.  The  balanced  phrase,  the  period, 
the  tautological  adjective  are  perpetually  employed.  Such  a 
style  has  undoubtedly  a  charm  of  its  own  ;  and  it  is  not  very 
surprising  that  Brougham  should  have  declared  "  when  we  repair 
to  the  works  of  Robertson  for  the  purpose  of  finding  facts,  we  are 
instantly  carried  away  by  the  stream  of  his  narrative,  and  forget 
the  purpose  of  our  errand  to  the  fountain."  The  balanced  style 
has,  however,  its  inevitable  defects.  A  phrase  of  ear-filling 
rotundity  will  sometimes  not  bear  close  analysis  ;  it  is  too  mani- 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  277 

festly  a  phrase  manufactured  to  make  equipoise  with  another, 
which  in  reahty  does  not  require  its  ponderous  help.  If  never 
brilhant,  Robertson  is  never  dull.  Brougham's  chief  criticism  of 
him,  that  he  does  not  sufficiently  express  his  detestation  of  the  crimes 
he  portrays,  does  not  appeal  to  moderns.  Had  he  moralised 
more,  he  might  have  given  us  a  gallery  of  "  fearful  examples." 
We  are  content  with  what  Robertson  has  left  us — a  moving 
panorama  of  three  interesting  historical  epochs. 

William  Wallace. 


THE  DEATH  OF  RIZZIO 

Nothing  now  remained  but  to  concert  the  plan  of  operation,  to 
choose  the  actors,  and  to  assign  them  their  parts  in  perpetrating 
this  detestable  crime.  Every  circumstance  here  paints  and 
characterises  the  manners  and  men  of  that  age,  and  fills  us  with 
horror  at  both.  The  place  chosen  for  committing  such  a  deed 
was  the  queen's  bedchamber.  Though  Mary  was  now  in  the 
sixth  month  of  her  pregnancy,  and  though  Rizzio  might  have 
been  seized  elsewhere  without  any  difficulty,  the  king  pitched 
upon  this  place,  that  he  might  enjoy  the  malicious  pleasure  of 
reproaching  Rizzio  with  his  crimes  before  the  queen's  face.  The 
Earl  of  Morton,  the  lord  high  chancellor  of  the  kingdom, 
undertook  to  direct  an  enterprise,  carried  on  in  defiance  of  all 
the  laws  of  which  he  was  bound  to  be  the  guardian.  The  Lord 
Ruthven,  who  had  been  confined  to  his  bed  for  three  months  by 
a  very  dangerous  distemper,  and  who  was  still  so  feeble  that  he 
could  hardly  walk,  or  bear  the  weight  of  his  own  armour,  was 
intrusted  with  the  executive  part  ;  and  while  he  himself  needed 
to  be  supported  by  two  men,  he  came  abroad  to  commit  a  murder 
in  the  presence  of  his  sovereign. 

On  the  ninth  of  March,  Morton  entered  the  court  of  the 
palace  with  an  hundred  and  sixty  men  ;  and  without  noise,  or 
meeting  with  any  resistance,  seized  all  the  gates.  While  the 
queen  was  at  supper  with  the  countess  of  Argyle,  Rizzio,  and  a 
few  other  persons,  the  king  suddenly  entered  the  apartment  by  a 
private  passage.  At  his  back  was  Ruthven,  clad  in  complete 
armour,  and  with  that  ghastly  and  horrid  look  which  long 
sickness  had  given  him.  Three  or  four  of  his  most  trusty 
accomplices  followed  him.  Such  an  unusual  appearance  alarmed 
those  who  were  present.  Rizzio  instantly  apprehended  that  he 
was  the  victim  at  whom  the  blow  was  aimed  ;  and  in  the  utmost 
consternation  he  retired  behind  the  queen,  hoping  that  the  reverence 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  279 

due  to  her  person  might  prove  some  protection  to  him.  The 
conspirators  had  proceeded  too  far  to  be  restrained  by  any 
considerations  of  that  kind.  Numbers  of  armed  men  rushed  into 
the  chamber.  Ruthven  drew  his  dagger,  and  with  a  furious  mien 
and  voice  commanded  Rizzio  to  leave  a  place  of  which  he  was 
unworthy,  and  which  he  had  occupied  too  long.  Mary  employed 
tears,  and  entreaties,  and  threatenings,  to  save  her  favourite. 
But  notwithstanding  all  these  he  was  torn  from  her  by  violence, 
and  before  he  could  be  dragged  through  the  next  apartment,  the 
rage  of  his  enemies  put  an  end  to  his  life,  piercing  his  body  with 
fifty-six  wounds. 

Athol,  Huntly,  Bothwell,  and  other  confidants  of  the  queen, 
who  had  apartments  in  the  palace,  were  alarmed  at  the  uproar, 
and  filled  with  the  utmost  terror  on  their  own  account ;  but  either 
no  violence  was  intended  against  them,  or  the  conspirators  durst 
not  shed  the  noblest  blood  in  the  kingdom  in  the  same  illegal 
manner  with  which  they  had  ventured  to  take  the  life  of  a 
stranger.  Some  of  them  were  dismissed,  and  others  made  their 
escape. 

The  conspirators,  in  the  meantime,  kept  possession  of  the 
palace,  and  guarded  the  queen  with  the  utmost  care.  A 
proclamation  was  published  by  the  king,  prohibiting  the  parlia- 
ment to  meet  on  the  day  appointed  ;  and  measures  were  taken 
by  him  for  preventing  any  tumult  in  the  city.  Murray,  Rothes, 
and  their  followers,  being  informed  of  every  step  taken  against 
Rizzio,  arrived  at  Edinburgh  next  evening.  Murray  was 
graciously  received  both  by  the  king  and  queen  :  by  the  former 
on  account  of  the  articles  which  had  been  agreed  to  between 
them  ;  by  the  latter,  because  she  hoped  to  prevail  upon  hini  by 
gentle  treatment  not  to  take  part  with  the  murderers  of  Rizzio. 
Their  power  she  still  felt  and  dreaded  ;  and  the  insult  which  they 
had  offered  to  her  authority,  and  even  to  her  person,  so  far 
exceeded  any  crime  she  could  impute  to  Murray,  that,  in  hopes 
of  wreaking  her  vengeance  on  them,  she  became  extremely  willing 
to  be  reconciled  to  him.  The  obligations,  however,  which  Murray 
lay  under  to  men  who  had  hazarded  their  lives  on  his  account, 
engaged  him  to  labour  for  their  safety.  The  queen,  who  scarce 
had  the  liberty  of  choice  left,  was  persuaded  to  admit  Morton 
and  Ruthven  into  her  presence,  and  to  grant  them  the  promise  of 
pardon  in  whatever  terms  they  should  deem  necessary  for  their 
own  security. 


2So  ENGLISH  PROSE 


The  king,  meanwhile,  stood  astonished  at  the  boldness  and 
success  of  his  own  enterprise,  and  uncertain  what  course  to  hold. 
The  queen  observed  his  irresolution,  and  availed  herself  of  it. 
She  employed  all  her  art  to  disengage  him  from  his  new 
associates.  His  consciousness  of  the  insult  which  he  had  offered 
to  so  illustrious  a  benefactress  inspired  him  with  uncommon 
facility  and  complaisance.  In  spite  of  all  the  warnings  he 
received  to  distrust  the  queen's  artifices,  she  prevailed  on  him  to 
dismiss  the  guards  which  the  conspirators  had  placed  on  her 
person  ;  and  that  same  night  he  made  his  escape  along  with  her, 
attended  by  three  persons  only,  and  retired  to  Dunbar.  The 
scheme  of  their  flight  had  been  communicated  to  Huntly  and 
Bothwell,  and  they  were  quickly  joined  by  them  and  several 
other  of  the  nobles.  Bothwell's  estate  lay  in  that  corner  of  the 
kingdom,  and  his  followers  crowded  to  their  chief  in  such 
numbers,  as  soon  enabled  the  queen  to  set  the  power  of  the 
conspirators  at  defiance.  ^j^^^^^  ^-^^^^.^  ^f  Scotland.) 


THE   REFORMATION 

From  the  death  of  Cardinal  Beaton,  nothing  has  been  said  of  the 
state  of  religion.  While  the  war  with  England  continued,  the 
clergy  had  no  leisure  to  molest  the  Protestants  ;  and  they  were 
not  yet  considerable  enough  to  expect  anything  more  than 
connivance  and  impunity.  The  new  doctrines  were  still  in  their 
infancy ;  but  during  this  short  interval  of  tranquillity,  they 
acquired  strength,  and  advanced  by  large  and  firm  steps  towards 
a  full  establishment  in  the  kingdom.  The  first  preachers  against 
popery  in  Scotland,  of  whom  several  had  appeared  in  the  reign 
of  James  V.,  were  more  eminent  for  zeal  and  piety  than  for 
learning.  Their  acquaintance  with  the  principles  of  the  Reforma- 
tion was  partial  and  at  second-hand  ;  some  of  them  had  been 
educated  in  England  ;  all  of  them  had  borrowed  their  notions 
from  the  books  published  there  ;  and,  in  the  first  dawn  of  the 
new  light,  they  did  not  venture  far  before  their  leaders.  But  in 
a  short  time  the  doctrines  and  writings  of  the  foreign  reformers 
became  generally  known ;  the  inquisitive  genius  of  the  age 
pressed  forward  in  quest  of  truth  ;  the  discovery  of  one  error 
opened  the  way  to  others  ;  the  downfall  of  one  imposture  drew 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  281 

many  after  it  ;  the  whole  fabric,  which  ignorance  and  superstition 
had  erected  in  times  of  darkness,  began  to  totter  ;  and  nothing 
was  wanting  to  complete  its  ruin,  but  a  daring  and  active  leader 
to  direct  the  attack.  Such  was  the  famous  John  Knox,  who, 
with  better  qualifications  of  learning,  and  more  extensive  views 
than  any  of  his  predecessors  in  Scotland,  possessed  a  natural 
intrepidity  of  mind,  which  set  him  above  fear.  He  began  his 
public  ministry  at  St.  Andrews  in  the  year  one  thousand  five 
hundred  and  forty -seven,  with  that  success  which  always 
accompanies  a  bold  and  popular  eloquence.  Instead  of  amusing 
himself  with  lopping  the  branches,  he  struck  directly  at  the  root 
of  popery,  and  attacked  both  the  doctrine  and  discipline  of  the 
established  church  with  a  vehemence  peculiar  to  himself,  but 
admirably  suited  to  the  temper  and  wishes  of  the  age. 

An  adversary  so  formidable  as  Knox  would  not  easily  have 
escaped  the  rage  of  the  clergy,  who  obser\'ed  the  tendency  and 
progress  of  his  opinions  with  the  utmost  concern.  But,  at  first, 
he  retired  for  safety  into  the  castle  of  St.  Andrews  ;  and  while 
the  conspirators  kept  possession  of  it,  preached  publicly  under 
their  protection.  The  great  revolution  in  England,  which 
followed  upon  the  death  of  Henry  VIII.,  contributed  no  less  than 
the  zeal  of  Knox  towards  demolishing  the  popish  church  in 
Scotland.  Henry  had  loosened  the  chains  and  lightened  the 
yoke  of  popery.  The  ministers  of  his  son  Edward  VI.  cast  them 
off  altogether,  and  established  the  Protestant  religion  upon  almost 
the  same  footing  whereon  it  now  stands  in  that  kingdom.  The 
influence  of  this  example  reached  Scotland,  and  the  happy  effects 
of  ecclesiastical  liberty  in  one  nation  inspired  the  other  with  an 
equal  desire  of  recovering  it.  The  reformers  had  hitherto  been 
obliged  to  conduct  themselves  with  the  utmost  caution,  and 
seldom  ventured  to  preach  but  in  private  houses  and  at  a 
distance  from  court ;  they  gained  credit,  as  happens  on  the  first 
publication  of  every  new  religion,  chiefly  among  persons  in  the 
lower  and  middle  ranks  of  life.  But  several  nolslemen  of  the 
greatest  distinction  having,  about  this  time,  openly  espoused 
their  principles,  they  were  no  longer  under  the  necessity  of 
acting  with  the  same  reserve ;  and  with  more  security  and 
encouragement  they  had  likewise  greater  success.  The  means 
of  acquiring  and  spreading  knowledge  became  more  common, 
and  the  spirit  of  innovation,  peculiar  to  that  period,  grew  every 
day  bolder  and  more  universal. 


282  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Happily  for  the  reformation,  this  spirit  was  still  under  some 
restraint.  It  had  not  yet  attained  firmness  and  vigour  sufficient 
to  overturn  a  system  founded  on  the  deepest  policy,  and  supported 
by  the  most  formidable  power.  Under  the  present  circumstances, 
any  attempt  towards  action  must  have  been  fatal  to  the  Protestant 
doctrines  ;  and  it  is  no  small  proof  of  the  authority,  as  well  as 
penetration,  of  the  heads  of  the  party,  that  they  were  able  to 
restrain  the  zeal  of  a  fiery  and  impetuous  people  until  that  critical 
and  mature  juncture,  when  every  step  they  took  was  decisive 
and  successful. 

Meanwhile,    their    cause    received     reinforcement    from    two 

different  causes  whence  they  could  never  have  expected  it.      The 

ambition    of   the   house   of  Guise    and  the   bigotry  of   Mary   of 

England  hastened  the  subversion  of  the  papal  throne  in  Scotland  ; 

and,  by  a  singular  disposition  of  Providence,  the  persons  who 

opposed  the  reformation  in  every  other  part  of  Europe  with  the 

fiercest  zeal,    were   made    instruments    of   advancing    it    in    that 

kingdom.  ,^         ^u     c  \ 

"  (r  rom  the  Same.) 


THE  FEUDAL  SYSTEM 

As  the  conquerors  of  Europe  had  their  acquisitions  to  maintain, 
not  only  against  such  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  as  they  had 
spared,  but  against  the  more  formidable  inroads  of  new  invaders, 
self-defence  was  their  chief  care,  and  seems  to  have  been  the 
chief  object  of  their  first  institutions  and  policy.  Instead  of  these 
loose  associations,  which,  though  they  scarcely  diminished  their 
personal  independence,  had  been  sufficient  for  their  security  while 
they  remained  in  their  original  countries,  they  saw  the  necessity 
of  uniting  in  more  close  confederacy,  and  of  relinquishing  some 
of  their  private  rights  in  order  to  attain  public  safety.  Every 
freeman,  upon  receiving  a  portion  of  the  lands  which  were  divided, 
bound  himself  to  appear  in  arms  against  the  enemies  of  the 
community.  This  military  service  was  the  condition  upon  which 
he  received  and  held  his  lands  ;  and  as  they  were  exempted  from 
every  other  burden,  that  tenure,  among  a  warlike  people,  was 
deemed  both  easy  and  honourable.  The  king  or  general,  who 
led  them  to  conquest,  continuing  still  to  be  the  head  of  the  colony, 
had,  of  course,  the  largest  portion  allotted  to  him.      Having  thus 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  283 

acquired  the  means  of  rewarding  past  services,  as  well  as  gaining 
new  adherents,  he  parcelled  out  his  lands  with  this  view,  binding 
those  on  whom  they  were  bestowed,  to  resort  to  his  standard  with 
a  number  of  men  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of  the  territory  which 
they  received,  and  to  bear  arms  in  his  defence.  His  chief  officers 
imitated  the  example  of  the  sovereign,  and,  in  distributing  portions 
of  their  lands  among  their  dependents,  annexed  the  same  condi- 
tion to  the  grant.  Thus  a  feudal  kingdom  resembled  a  military 
establishment,  rather  than  a  civil  institution.  The  victorious 
army,  cantoned  out  in  the  country  which  it  had  seized,  continued 
ranged  under  its  proper  officers,  and  subordinate  to  military 
command.  The  names  of  a  soldier  and  of  a  freeman  were 
synonymous.  Every  proprietor  of  land,  girt  with  a  sword,  was 
ready  to  march  at  the  summons  of  his  superior,  and  to  take  the 
field  against  the  common  enemy. 

But  though  the  feudal  policy  seems  to  be  so  admirably 
calculated  for  defence  against  the  assaults  of  any  foreign  power, 
its  provisions  for  the  interior  order  and  trancjuillity  of  society  were 
extremely  defective.  The  principles  of  disorder  and  corruption 
are  discernible  in  that  constitution  under  its  best  and  most  perfect 
form.  They  soon  unfolded  themselves,  and,  spreading  with 
rapidity  through  every  part  of  the  system,  produced  the  most 
fatal  effects.  The  bond  of  political  union  was  extremely  feeble  ; 
the  sources  of  anarchy  were  innumerable.  The  monarchical  and 
aristocratical  parts  of  the  constitution,  having  no  intermediate 
power  to  balance  them,  were  perpetually  at  variance,  and  jostling 
with  each  other.  The  powerful  vassals  of  the  crown  soon 
extorted  a  confirmation  for  life  of  those  grants  of  land,  which, 
being  at  first  purely  gratuitous,  had  been  bestowed  only  during 
pleasure.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  they  prevailed  to  have  them 
converted  into  hereditary  possessions.  One  step  more  completed 
their  usurpations,  and  rendered  them  unalienable.  With  an  ambition 
no  less  enterprising,  and  more  preposterous,  they  appropriated  to 
themselves  titles  of  honour,  as  well  as  offices  of  power  or  trust. 
These  personal  marks  of  distinction,  which  the  public  admiration 
bestows  on  illustrious  merit,  or  which  the  public  confidence  confers 
on  extraordinary  abilities,  were  annexed  to  certain  families,  and 
transmitted  like  fiefs,  from  father  to  son,  by  hereditary  right. 
The  crown  vassals  having  thus  secured  possession  of  their  lands 
and  dignities,  the  nature  of  the  feudal  institutions,  which,  though 
founded  on  subordination,  verged  to  independence,  led  them  to 


284  ENGLISH  PROSE 


new,  and  still  more  dangerous  encroachments  on  the  prerogatives 
of  the  sovereign.  They  obtained  the  power  of  supreme  jurisdic- 
tion, both  civil  and  criminal,  within  their  own  territories  ;  the 
right  of  coining  money  ;  together  with  the  privilege  of  carrying  on 
war  against  their  private  enemies,  in  their  own  name,  and  by 
their  own  authority.  The  ideas  of  political  subjection  were  almost 
entirely  lost,  and  frequently  scarce  any  appearance  of  feudal 
subordination  remained.  Nobles,  who  had  acquired  such 
enormous  power,  scorned  to  consider  themselves  as  subjects. 
They  aspired  openly  at  being  independent :  the  bonds  which 
connected  the  principal  members  of  the  constitution  with  the 
crown  were  dissolved.  A  kingdom,  considerable  in  name  and 
extent,  was  broken  into  as  many  separate  principalities  as  it 
contained  powerful  barons.  A  thousand  causes  of  jealousy  and 
discord  subsisted  among  them,  and  gave  rise  to  as  many  wars. 
Every  country  in  Europe,  wrested  or  kept  in  continual  alarm 
during  these  endless  contests,  was  filled  with  castles  and  places 
of  strength  erected  for  the  security  of  the  inhabitants  ;  not  against 
foreign  force,  but  against  internal  hostilities.  An  universal 
anarchy,  destructive,  in  a  great  measure,  of  all  the  advantages 
which  men  expect  to  derive  from  society,  prevailed.  The  people, 
the  most  numerous  as  well  as  the  most  useful  part  of  the 
community,  were  either  reduced  to  a  state  of  actual  servitude,  or 
treated  with  the  same  insolence  and  rigour  as  if  they  had  been 
degraded  into  that  wretched  condition.  The  king,  stripped  of 
almost  every  prerogative,  and  without  authority  to  enact  or  to 
execute  salutary  laws,  could  neither  protect  the  innocent  nor 
punish  the  guilty.  The  nobles,  superior  to  all  restraint,  harassed 
each  other  with  perpetual  wars,  oppressed  their  fellow-subjects, 
and  humbled  or  insulted  their  sovereign.  To  crown  all,  time 
gradually  fixed,  and  rendered  venerable,  this  pernicious  system, 
which  violence  had  established. 


(From  History  of  Charles  V.) 


RESIGNATION   OF  A  CROWN 

As  this,  then,  appeared  to  be  the  proper  juncture  for  executing 
the  scheme  which  he  had  long  meditated,  Charles  resolved  to 
resign  his  kingdoms  to  his  son,  with  a  solemnity  suitable  to  the 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  285 

importance  of  the  transaction,  and  to  perform  this  last  act  of 
sovereignty  with  such  formal  pomp,  as  might  leave  a  lasting 
impression  on  the  minds  not  only  of  his  subjects  but  of  his 
successor.  With  this  view,  he  called  Philip  out  of  England, 
where  the  peevish  temper  of  his  queen,  which  increased  with  her 
despair  of  having  issue,  rendered  him  extremely  unhappy,  and 
the  jealousy  of  the  English  left  him  no  hopes  of  obtaining  the 
direction  of  their  affairs.  Having  assembled  the  States  of  the 
Low  Countries  at  Brussels,  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  October,  Charles 
seated  himself,  for  the  last  time,  in  the  chair  of  state,  on  one  side 
of  which  was  placed  his  son,  and  on  the  other  his  sister,  the 
Queen  of  Hungary,  Regent  of  the  Netherlands,  with  a  splendid 
retinue  of  the  pi'inces  of  the  Empire  and  grandees  of  Spain 
standing  behind  him.  The  president  of  the  council  of  Flanders, 
by  his  command,  explained,  in  a  few  words,  his  intention  in 
calling  this  extraordinary  meeting  of  the  States.  He  then  read 
the  instrument  of  resignation,  by  which  Charles  surrendered  to 
his  son  Philip  all  his  territories,  jurisdiction,  and  authority  in  the 
Low  Countries,  absolving  his  subjects  there  from  the  oath  of 
allegiance  to  him,  which  he  required  them  to  transfer  to  Philip, 
his  lawful  heir,  and  to  serve  him  with  the  same  loyalty  and  zeal 
which  they  had  manifested,  during  so  long  a  course  of  years,  in 
support  of  his  government. 

Charles  then  rose  from  his  seat,  and  leaning  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  because  he  was  unable  to  stand  without 
support,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  audience,  and  from  a  paper 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  in  order  to  assist  his  memory,  he 
recounted,  with  dignity  but  without  ostentation,  all  the  great 
things  which  he  had  undertaken  and  performed  since  the 
commencement  of  his  administration.  He  observed,  that  from 
the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age,  he  had  dedicated  all  his 
thoughts  and  attention  to  public  objects,  reserving  no  portion 
of  his  time  for  the  indulgence  of  his  ease,  and  very  little  for  the 
enjoyment  of  private  pleasure  ;  that,  either  in  a  pacific  or  hostile 
manner,  he  had  visited  Germany  nine  times,  Spain  six  times, 
France  four  times,  Italy  seven  times,  the  Low  Countries  ten 
times,  England  twice,  Africa  as  often,  and  had  made  eleven 
voyages  by  sea  ;  that  while  his  health  permitted  him  to  discharge 
his  duty,  and  the  vigour  of  his  constitution  was  equal,  in  any 
degree,  to  the  arduous  office  of  governing  such  extensive  dominions, 
he  had  never  shunned  labour,   nor  repined  under  fatigue  ;  that 


286  ENGLISH  PROSE 


now,  when  his  health  was  broken,  and  his  strength  exhausted  by 
the  rage  of  an  incurable  distemper,  his  growing  infirmities 
admonished  him  to  retire  ;  nor  was  he  so  fond  of  reigning,  as  to 
retain  the  sceptre  in  an  impotent  hand,  which  was  no  longer  able 
to  protect  his  subjects,  or  to  secure  to  them  the  happiness  which 
he  wished  them  to  enjoy  ;  that  instead  of  a  sovereign  worn  out 
with  diseases,  and  scarcely  half  alive,  he  gave  them  one  in  the 
prime  of  life,  accustomed  already  to  govern,  and  who  added  to 
the  vigour  of  youth  all  the  attention  and  sagacity  of  maturer 
years  ;  that  if,  during  the  course  of  a  long  administration,  he  had 
committed  any  material  error  in  government,  or  if,  under  the 
pressure  of  so  many  and  great  affairs,  and  amidst  the  attention 
which  he  had  been  obliged  to  give  to  them,  he  had  either 
neglected  or  injured  any  of  his  subjects,  he  now  implored  their 
forgiveness  ;  that,  for  his  part,  he  should  ever  retain  a  grateful 
sense  of  their  fidelity  and  attachment,  and  would  carry  the 
remembrance  of  it  along  with  him  to  the  place  of  his  retreat, 
as  his  sweetest  consolation,  as  well  as  the  best  reward  for  all 
his  services,  and  in  his  last  prayers  to  Almighty  God  would  pour 
forth  his  most  earnest  petitions  for  their  welfare. 

Then  turning  towards  Philip,  who  fell  on  his  knees  and  kissed 
his  father's  hand  : — "  If,"  says  he,  "  I  had  left  you  by  my  death 
this  rich  inheritance,  to  which  I  have  made  such  large  addi- 
tions, some  regard  would  have  been  justly  due  to  my  memory 
on  that  account ;  but  now,  when  I  voluntarily  resign  to  you  what 
I  might  have  still  retained,  I  may  well  expect  the  warmest  ex- 
pressions of  thanks  on  your  part.  With  these,  however,  I  dispense, 
and  shall  consider  your  concern  for  the  welfare  of  your  subjects, 
and  your  love  of  them,  as  the  best  and  most  acceptable  testimony 
of  your  gratitude  to  me.  It  is  in  your  power,  by  a  wise  and 
virtuous  administration,  to  justify  the  extraordinary  proof  which  I, 
this  day,  give  of  my  paternal  affection,  and  to  demonstrate  that 
you  are  worthy  of  the  confidence  which  I  repose  in  you.  Preserve 
an  inviolable  regard  for  religion  ;  maintain  the  Catholic  faith  in 
its  purity  ;  let  the  laws  of  your  country  be  sacred  in  your  eyes  ; 
encroach  not  on  the  rights  and  privileges  of  your  people  ;  and,  if 
the  time  should  ever  come,  when  you  shall  wish  to  enjoy  the 
tranquillity  of  private  life,  may  you  have  a  son  endowed  with  such 
qualities,  that  you  can  resign  your  sceptre  to  him,  with  as  much 
satisfaction  as  I  give  mine  to  you." 

As   soon  as    Charles    had    finished    his    long   address    to   his 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  287 

subjects  and  to  their  new  sovereign,  he  sunk  into  the  chair, 
exhausted  and  ready  to  faint  with  the  fatigue  of  such  an  extra- 
ordinary effort.  During  his  discourse,  the  whole  audience  meUed 
into  tears,  some  from  admiration  of  his  magnanimity,  others 
softened  by  his  expressions  of  tenderness  towards  his  son,  and  of 
love  to  his  people  ;  and  all  were  affected  with  the  deepest  sorrow 
at  losing  a  sovereign,  who,  during  his  administration,  had  dis- 
tinguished the  Netherlands,  his  native  country,  with  particular 
marks  of  his  regard  and  attachment. 

Philip  then  arose  from  his  knees,  and  after  returning  thanks 
to  his  father,  with  a  low  and  submissive  voice,  for  the  royal  gift 
which  his  unexampled  bounty  had  bestowed  upon  him,  he 
addressed  the  assembly  of  the  States,  and  regretting  his  inability 
to  speak  in  the  Flemish  language  with  such  facility  as  to  express 
what  he  felt  on  this  interesting  occasion,  as  well  as  what  he  owed 
to  his  good  subjects  in  the  Netherlands,  he  begged  that  they 
would  permit  Granvelle,  Bishop  of  Arras,  to  deliver  what  he  had 
given  him  in  charge  to  speak  in  his  name.  Granvelle,  in  a  long 
discourse,  expatiated  on  the  zeal  with  which  Philip  was  animated 
for  the  good  of  his  subjects,  on  his  resolution  to  devote  all  his  time 
and  talents  to  the  promoting  of  their  happiness,  and  on  his 
intention  to  imitate  his  father's  example  in  distinguishing  the 
Netherlands  with  particular  marks  of  his  regard.  Maes,  a  lawyer 
of  great  eloquence,  replied,  in  the  name  of  the  States,  with  large 
professions  of  their  fidelity  and  affection  to  their  new  sovereign. 

Then  Mary,  Queen  Dowager  of  Hungary,  resigned  the  regency 
with  which  she  had  been  entrusted  by  her  brother  during  the 
space  of  twenty-five  years.  Next  day  Philip,  in  the  presence  of 
the  States,  took  the  usual  oaths  to  maintain  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  his  subjects  ;  and  all  the  members,  in  their  own 
name,  and  in  that  of  their  constituents,  swore  allegiance  to  him. 

A  few  weeks  after  this  transaction,  Charles,  in  an  assembly 
not  less  splendid,  and  with  a  ceremonial  equally  pompous, 
resigned  to  his  son  the  crowns  of  Spain,  with  all  the  territories 
depending  on  them,  both  in  the  old  and  in  the  new  world.  Of 
all  these  vast  possessions,  he  reserved  nothing  for  himself  but  an 
annual  pension  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns,  to  defray  the 
charges  of  his  family,  and  to  afford  him  a  small  sum  for  acts  of 
beneficence  and  charity. 

As  he  had  fixed  on  a  place  of  retreat  in  Spain,  hoping  that  the 
dryness  and  the  warmth   of  the  climate  in    that   country  might 


288  ENGLISH  PROSE 


mitigate  the  violence  of  his  disease,  which  had  been  much 
increased  by  the  moisture  of  the  air  and  the  rigour  of  the  winters 
in  the  Netherlands,  he  was  extremely  impatient  to  embark  for 
that  kingdom,  and  to  disengage  himself  entirely  from  business, 
which  he  found  to  be  impossible  while  he  remained  in  Brussels. 
But  his  physicians  remonstrated  so  strongly  against  his  venturing 
to  sea  at  that  cold  and  boisterous  season  of  the  year,  that  he  con- 
sented, though  with  reluctance,  to  put  off  his  voyage  for  some 
months.  (From  the  Same.) 


COLUMBUS   NEARING  LAND 

As  they  proceeded,  the  indications  of  approaching  land  seemed 
to  be  more  certain,  and  excited  hope  in  proportion.  The  birds 
began  to  appear  in  flocks,  making  towards  the  south-west. 
Columbus,  in  imitation  of  the  Portuguese  navigators,  who  had 
been  guided  in  several  of  their  discoveries  by  the  motion  of 
birds,  altered  his  course  from  due  west  towards  that  cjuarter 
whither  they  pointed  their  flight.  But,  after  holding  on  for 
several  days  in  this  new  direction,  without  any  better  success  than 
formerly,  having  seen  no  object,  during  thirty  days,  but  the  sea 
and  the  sky,  the  hopes  of  his  companions  subsided  faster  than 
they  had  risen  ;  their  fears  revived  with  additional  force  ; 
impatience,  rage,  and  despair  appeared  in  every  countenance. 
All  sense  of  subordination  was  lost :  the  officers,  who  had  hitherto 
concurred  with  Columbus  in  opinion,  and  supported  his  authority, 
now  took  part  with  the  private  men  ;  they  assembled  tumultuously 
on  the  deck,  expostulated  with  their  commander,  mingled  threats 
with  their  expostulations,  and  required  him  instantly  to  tack 
about  and  return  to  Europe.  Columbus  perceived  that  it  would 
be  of  no  avail  to  have  recourse  to  any  of  his  former  arts,  which 
having  been  tried  so  often  had  lost  their  effect  ;  and  that  it  was 
impossible  to  rekindle  any  zeal  for  the  success  of  the  expedition 
among  men  in  whose  breasts  fear  had  extinguished  every  generous 
sentiment.  He  saw  that  it  was  no  less  vain  to  think  of  employ- 
ing either  gentle  or  severe  measures  to  quell  a  mutiny  so  general 
and  so  violent.  It  was  necessary  on  all  these  accounts,  to  soothe 
passions  which  he  could  no  longer  command,  and  to  give  way  to 


IVILLIAM  ROBERTSON  289 

a  torrent  too  impetuous  to  be  checked.  He  promised  solemnly  to 
his  men  that  he  would  comply  with  their  request,  provided  they 
would  accompany  him,  and  obey  his  command  for  three  days 
longer,  and  if,  during  that  time,  land  were  not  discovered,  he 
would  then  abandon  the  enterprise,  and  direct  his  course  towards 
Spain. 

Enraged  as  the  sailors  were,  and  impatient  to  turn  their  faces 
again  towaixls  their  native  country,  this  proposition  did  not  appear  to 
them  unreasonable.  Nor  did  Columbus  hazard  much  in  confining 
himself  to  a  term  so  short.  The  presages  of  discovering  land 
were  now  so  numerous  and  promising,  that  he  deemed  them  in- 
fallible. For  some  days  the  sounding  line  reached  the  bottom, 
and  the  soil  which  it  brought  up  indicated  land  to  be  at  no  great 
distance.  The  flocks  of  birds  increased,  and  were  composed  not 
only  of  sea-fowl,  but  of  such  land  birds  as  could  not  be  supposed 
to  fly  far  from  the  shore.  The  crew  of  the  Pinta  observed  a  cane 
floating,  which  seemed  to  have  been  newly  cut,  and  likewise  a 
piece  of  timber  artificially  curved.  The  sailors  aboard  the  Nina 
took  up  the  branch  of  a  tree  with  red  berries,  perfectly  fresh. 
The  clouds  around  the  setting  sun  assumed  a  new  appearance  ; 
the  air  was  more  mild  and  warm,  and,  during  night,  the  wind 
became  unequal  and  variable.  From  all  these  symptoms, 
Columbus  was  so  confident  of  being  near  land,  that  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  eleventh  of  October,  after  public  prayers  for  success, 
he  ordered  the  sails  to  be  furled,  lest  they  should  be  driven  ashore 
in  the  night.  During  this  interval  of  suspense  and  expectation, 
no  man  shut  his  eyes,  all  kept  upon  deck,  gazing  intently  towards 
that  quarter  where  they  expected  to  discover  the  land,  which  had 
been  so  long  the  object  of  their  wishes. 

About  two  hours  before  midnight,  Columbus,  standing  on  the 
forecastle,  observed  a  light  at  a  distance,  and  privately  pointed 
it  out  to  Pedro  Guttierez,  a  page  of  the  queen's  wardrobe. 
Guttierez  perceived  it,  and  calling  to  Salcedo,  comptroller  of  the 
fleet,  all  three  saw  it  in  motion,  as  if  it  were  carried  from  place  to 
place.  A  little  after  midnight  the  joyful  sound  of  land  !  land  ! 
was  heard  from  the  Pinta,  which  kept  always  ahead  of  the  other 
ships.  But,  having  been  deceived  so  often  by  fallacious  appear- 
ances, every  man  was  now  become  slow  of  belief,  and  waited  in 
all  the  anguish  of  uncertainty  and  impatience  for  the  return  of 
day.  As  soon  as  morning  dawned,  all  doubts  and  fears  were 
dispelled.      From  every  ship  an  island  was  seen  about  two  leagues 

VOL.  IV  U 


290  ENGLISH  PROSE 


to  the  north,  whose  flat  and  verdant  fields,  well  stored  with  wood, 
and  watered  with  many  rivulets,  presented  the  aspect  of  a 
delightful  country.  The  crew  of  the  Pinta  instantly  began  the 
Te  Deum,  as  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving  to  God,  and  were  joined 
by  those  of  the  other  ships,  with  tears  of  joy  and  transports  of 
congratulation.  This  office  of  gratitude  to  heaven  was  followed 
by  an  act  of  justice  to  their  commander.  They  threw  themselves 
at  the  feet  of  Columbus,  with  feelings  of  self-condemnation 
mingled  with  reverence.  They  implored  him  to  pardon  their 
ignorance,  incredulity,  and  insolence,  which  had  created  him  so 
much  unnecessary  disquiet,  and  had  so  often  obstructed  the 
prosecution  of  his  well-concerted  plan  ;  and  passing,  in  the  warmth 
of  their  admiration,  from  one  extreme  to  another,  they  now  pro- 
nounced the  man  whom  they  had  lately  reviled  and  threatened, 
to  be  a  person  inspired  by  heaven  with  sagacity  and  fortitude 
more  than  human,  in  order  to  accomplish  a  design  so  far  beyond 
the  ideas  and  conception  of  all  former  ages. 

(From  History  of  America.) 


MONTEZUMA 

The  firmness  with  which  Cortez  adhered  to  his  original  proposal 
should  naturally  have  brought  the  negotiation  between  him  and 
Montezuma  to  a  speedy  issue,  as  it  seemed  to  leave  the  Mexican 
monarch  no  choice  but  either  to  receive  him  with  confidence  as  a 
friend,  or  to  oppose  him  openly  as  an  enemy.  The  latter  was 
what  might  have  been  expected  from  a  haughty  prince  in  posses- 
sion of  extensive  power.  The  Mexican  empire,  at  this  period,  was 
at  a  pitch  of  grandeur  to  which  no  society  ever  attained  in  so  short 
a  period.  Though  it  had  subsisted,  according  to  its  own  tradi- 
tions, only  a  hundred  and  thirty  years,  its  dominion  extended 
from  the  north  to  the  south  sea,  over  territories  stretching,  with 
some  small  interruption,  above  five  hundred  leagues  from  east  to 
west,  and  more  than  two  hundred  from  north  to  south,  compre- 
hending provinces  not  inferior  in  fertility,  population,  and 
opulence,  to  any  in  the  torrid  zone.  The  people  were  warlike 
and  enterprising  ;  the  authority  of  the  monarch  unbounded,  and 
his  revenues  considerable.  If,  with  the  forces  which  might  have 
been    suddenly  assembled   in  such    an   empire,   Montezuma   had 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON  291 

fallen  upon  the  Spaniards  while  encamped  on  a  barren  unhealthy 
coast,  unsupported  by  any  ally,  without  a  place  of  retreat,  and 
destitute  of  provisions,  it  seems  to  be  impossible,  even  with  all 
the  advantages  of  their  superior  discipline  and  arms,  that  they 
could  have  stood  the  shock,  and  they  must  either  have  perished 
in  such  an  unequal  contest,  or  have  abandoned  the  enterprise. 

As  the  power  of  Montezuma  enabled  him  to  take  this  spirited 
part,  his  own  dispositions  were  such  as  seemed  naturally  to 
prompt  him  to  it.  Of  all  the  princes  who  had  swayed  the 
Mexican  sceptre,  he  was  the  most  haughty,  the  most  violent,  and 
the  most  impatient  of  control.  His  subjects  looked  up  to  him 
with  awe,  and  his  enemies  with  terror.  The  former  he  governed 
with  unexampled  rigour  ;  but  they  were  impressed  with  such  an 
opinion  of  his  capacity,  as  commanded  their  respect  ;  and  by 
many  victories  over  the  latter,  he  had  spread  far  the  dread  of  his 
arms,  and  had  added  several  considerable  provinces  to  his 
dominions.  But  though  his  talents  might  be  suited  to  the  transac- 
tions of  a  state  so  imperfectly  polished  as  the  Mexican  empire, 
and  sufficient  to  conduct  them  while  in  their  accustomed  course, 
they  were  altogether  inadequate  to  a  conjuncture  so  extraordinary, 
and  did  not  qualify  him  either  to  judge  with  the  discernment,  or 
to  act  with  the  decision,  recjuisite  in  such  a  trying  emergence.. 

From  the  moment  that  the  Spaniards  appeared  on  his  coast, 
he  discovered  symptoms  of  timidity  and  embarrassment.  Instead 
of  taking  such  resolutions  as  the  consciousness  of  his  own  power, 
or  the  memory  of  his  former  exploits  might  have  inspired,  he 
deliberated  with  an  anxiety  and  hesitation  which  did  not  escape 
the  notice  of  his  meanest  courtiers.  The  perplexity  and  dis- 
composure of  Montezuma's  mind  upon  this  occasion,  as  well  as 
the  general  dismay  of  his  subjects,  were  not  owing  wholly  to 
the  impression  which  the  Spaniards  had  made  by  the  novelty  of 
their  appearance  and  the  terror  of  their  amis.  Its  origin  may  be 
traced  up  to  a  more  remote  source.  There  was  an  opinion,  if 
we  may  believe  the  earliest  and  most  authentic  Spanish  historians, 
almost  universal  among  the  Americans,  that  some  dreadful 
calamity  was  impending  over  their  heads,  from  a  race  of 
formidable  invaders  who  should  come  from  regions  towards  the 
rising  sun,  to  overrun  and  desolate  their  country.  Whether  this 
disc[uieting  apprehension  flowed  from  the  memory  of  some  natural 
calamity  which  had  afflicted  that  part  of  the  globe,  and  impressed 
the  minds  of  the  inhabitants  with  superstitious  fears    and    fore- 


292  ENGLISH  PROSE 


bodings,  or  whether  it  was  an  imagination  accidentally  suggested 
by  the  astonishment  which  the  first  sight  of  a  new  race  of  men 
occasioned,  it  is  impossible  to  determine.  But  as  the  Mexicans 
were  more  prone  to  superstition  than  any  people  in  the  New 
World,  they  were  more  deeply  affected  by  the  appearance  of  the 
Spaniards,  whom  their  credulity  instantly  represented  as  the 
instruments  destined  to  bring  about  this  fatal  revolution  which 
they  dreaded.  Under  those  circumstances,  it  ceases  to  be 
incredible  that  a  handful  of  adventurers  should  alarm  the  monarch 
of  a  great  empire,  and  all  his  subjects. 

(From  the  Same.) 


RICHARD  PRICE 


[Richard  Price,  son  of  the  Rev.  Rhys  Price,  was  born  in  Glamorganshire, 
1723,  and  became,  Hke  his  father,  a  dissenting  minister.  His  first  charge  was 
at  Newington  Green,  1755.  In  the  intervals  of  sermon  writing  he  composed 
his  chief  philosophical  book.  The  Principal  Questions  and  Difficulties  in 
Morals,  1758  ;  and  his  studies  of  the  theory  of  probabilities,  expectation  of 
life  and  kindred  subjects,  gained  him  admission  to  the  Royal  Society.  He 
wrote  also  Dissertations  on  Providence,  etc. ,  1767,  which  attracted  some 
notice.  But  he  became  soon  much  better  known  by  his  Observatio?is  on  Re- 
versionary Payments  (1769),  and  by  his  Appeal  to  the  Public  on  the  Subject  of 
the  National  Debt  (1772).  It  is  admitted  that  Pitt  derived  from  him  the 
credit  (or  discredit)  of  his  New  Sinking  Fund.  Price  incurred  much  obloquy 
by  his  Observations  on  Civil  Liberty  (1776),  in  which  he  went  further  than 
Burke  in  his  defence  of  the  revolted  colonies.  He  ' '  looked  to  the  United 
States  as  now  the  hope  and  likely  soon  to  become  the  refuge  of  mankind." 
He  taught  for  a  short  time  in  the  Dissenting  College  at  Hackney  on  its 
foundation  (1787),  and  the  College  is  associated  with  him,  as  that  at  Hoxton 
with  William  Godwin.  Price  was  soon  again  before  the  public  as  an  ardent 
champion  of  the  French  Revolution,  which  is  the  subject  of  his  Discourse  on  the 
Love  of  our  Country,  delivered  on  4th  November  1789,  at  the  Meeting-House 
in  the  Old  Jewry.  Burke  shows  him  no  mercy  in  the  Reflections  on  the  French 
Revolution  (1790),  but  there  is  something  of  real  pathos  and  eloquence  in  the 
old  man's  visions  of  a  new  era.      He  died  in  the  spring  of  1791.] 

If  a  man  could  be  judged  by  his  friends,  Price's  deserts  would  Ijc 
high.  He  was  intimate  with  Benjamin  Franklin  and  John  Howard  ; 
he  corresponded  with  Hume  and  Turgot.  He  was  visited  by 
Lyttelton,  Shelbourne,  and  Mrs.  Montague.  The  now  nearly-for- 
gotten Mrs.  Chapone  has  written  high  praise  of  him  in  the  character 
of  "  Simplicius "  {^Miscellanies.,  Essay  I.);  Simplicius  is  modest, 
learned,  and  candid.  Nevertheless  he  has  not  left  a  name  worthy 
to  be  called  great  in  our  literature.  He  was  a  man  of  vigorous, 
independent  judgment,  who  did  good  public  service  in  his  genera- 
tion. He  stimulated  discussion  on  philosophical,  theological,  and 
political  ([uestions,  and  showed  taste  and  sobriety  in  dealing  with 


294  ENGLISH  PROSE 


opponents.  He  had  the  moral  courage  to  advocate  unpopular 
causes. 

But,  unlike  greater  men  who  had  made  greater  mistakes  than 
he  ever  committed,  Price  has  left  the  first  principles  of  ethics, 
politics,  and  finance  substantially  where  he  found  them.  When  he 
is  asked,  "  What  is  the  power  within  us  that  perceives  the  distinc- 
tions of  right  and  wrong?"  he  answers  "The  understanding." 
Moral  distinctions  are  founded  on  the  fitness  of  things,  and  are 
necessary  truths  like  those  relating  to  space  or  causation.  "  The 
more  we  inquire,  the  more  indisputable,  I  imagine,  it  will  appear 
to  us  that  we  express  necessary  truths  when  we  say  of  some 
actions  they  are  right  and  of  others  they  are  wrong."  He  is 
opposing  Hume's  Human  Nature  on  the  principles  of  Plato,  Aris- 
totle, Cudworth,  and  Bishop  Butler.  Sensation  cannot  give  us 
general  notions  ;  and  yet  general  notions  are  not  therefore  false, 
on  the  contrary  they  are  therefore  necessary.  Kant  has  once  for  all 
amended  this  contention,  and  put  the  argument  in  the  fonn  in 
which  it  must  be  met  ;  and  at  this  distance  of  time  Price's 
arguments  seem  only  valuable  historically,  as  interesting  protests 
against  Hutcheson's  moral  sense  and  Hume's  utility. 

In  theology  he  was  then  considered  too  latitudinarian  ;  but 
though  a  Unitarian  he  was  in  many  matters  of  faith  hardly  less 
orthodox  than  Archdeacon  Paley,  while  he  was  certainly  more 
emotional.  In  finance,  though  pronounced  by  a  great  contempor- 
ary "  by  no  means  an  able  calculator,"  he  was  the  cause  of  able 
calculation  in  other  men,  one  of  whom  (William  Morgan)  was 
at  pains  to  edit  his  chief  financial  tracts,  as  well  as  to  write  his 
Life  (1815). 

In  political  philosophy  he  abode  by  the  principles  of  Locke's 
Civil  Governmejit,  and  did  no  harm  by  re-affirming  them  in  1776 
and  1789.  He  gave  Burke  occasion  to  point  out  the  weak  points 
in  Locke's  case,  and  to  press  home  the  general  principle  that 
in  politics  general  principles  must  never  be  pressed  home.  Price 
had  strong  faith  in  the  "  natural  improvableness  "  of  the  human 
race  ;  but  it  was  Godwin  whose  exaggerations  of  this  doctrine 
brousrht  out  the  full  strength  of  the  case  against  it. 


J.     BONAR. 


DO  OUR  FACULTIES  DECEIVE  US? 

Let  us  consider,  first,  that  we  are  informed  of  this  difficulty  by 
our  faculties,  and  that,  consequently,  if  we  do  not  know  that  any 
regard  is  due  to  their  information,  we  likewise  do  not  know  that 
there  is  any  regard  due  to  this  difficulty.  It  will  appear  presently 
to  be  a  contradiction  to  suppose  that  our  faculties  can  teach  us 
universally  to  suspect  themselves. 

Secondly,  our  natures  are  such,  that  whatever  we  see,  or  think 
we  see  evidence  against,  we  cannot  believe.  If  then  there  should 
appear  to  us,  on  the  whole,  any  evidence  against  the  supposition 
that  our  faculties  are  so  contrived  as  always  to  deceive  us,  we  are 
obliged  to  reject  it.  Evidence  must  produce  conviction  propor- 
tioned to  the  imagined  degree  of  it ;  and  conviction  is  inconsistent 
with  suspicion.  It  will  signify  nothing  to  urge  that  no  evidence  in 
this  case  can  be  regarded  because  discovered  by  our  suspected 
faculties  ;  for  we  cannot  suspect,  we  cannot  in  any  case  doubt  with- 
out reason  or  against  reason.  Doubting  supposes  evidence,  and 
there  cannot,  therefore,  be  any  such  thing  as  doubting  whether 
evidence  itself  is  to  be  regarded.  A  man  who  doubts  of  the  veracity 
of  his  faculties,  must  do  it  on  their  own  authority  ;  that  is,  at  the 
very  time,  and  in  the  very  act  of  suspecting  them,  he  must  trust 
them.  As  nothing  is  more  plainly  self-destructive  than  to  attempt 
to  prove  by  reason  that  reason  deserves  no  credit,  or  to  assert  that 
we  have  reason  for  thinking  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  reason  ; 
it  is  certainly  no  less  so  to  pretend  that  we  have  reason  to  doubt 
whether  reason  is  to  be  regarded,  or  which  comes  to  the  same, 
whether  our  faculties  are  to  be  regarded.  And,  as  far  as  it  is 
acknowledged,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  so  far  it  will  be  ridi- 
culous to  pretend  to  doubt.  ,„         ^      ,.        .     ,^      ,  x 

(rrom  (J^ucstwns  in  iMorals.) 


296  ENGLISH  PROSE 


THE  EFFECTS   OF   CUSTOM 

All  that  custom  and  education  can  do  is  to  alter  the  direction 
of  natural  sentiments  and  ideas,  and  to  connect  them  with  wrong 
objects.  It  is  that  part  of  our  moral  constitution  which  depends 
on  instinct,  that  is  chiefly  liable  to  the  corniption  produced  by 
these  causes.  The  sensible  horror  at  vice  and  attachment  to 
virtue,  may  be  impaired,  the  conscience  seared,  the  nature  of  par- 
ticular practices  mistaken,  the  sense  of  shame  weakened,  the 
judgment  darkened,  the  voice  of  reason  stifled,  and  self-deception 
practised,  to  the  most  lamentable  and  fatal  degree.  Yet  the 
grand  lines  and  primary  principles  of  morality  are  so  deeply 
wrought  into  our  hearts,  and  one  with  our  minds,  that  they  will 
be  for  ever  legible.  The  general  approbation  of  certain  virtues, 
and  dislike  of  their  contraries,  must  always  remain,  and  cannot 
be  erased  but  with  the  destruction  of  all  intellectual  perception. 
The  most  depraved  never  sink  so  low  as  to  lose  all  moral  discern- 
ment, all  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  justice  and  injustice,  honour 
and  dishonour.  This  appears  sufficiently  from  the  judgments  they 
pass  on  the  actions  of  others  ;  from  the  resentment  they  discover 
whenever  they  are  themselves  the  object  of  ill-treatment ;  and 
from  the  inward  uneasiness  and  remorse  which  they  cannot  avoid 
feeling,  and  by  which,  on  some  occasions,  they  are  severely  tor- 

"^^"^^^-  (From  the  Same.) 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    WORLD 

It  is  too  evident  that  the  state  of  this  country  is  such  as  renders 
it  an  object  of  concern  and  anxiety.  It  wants  (I  have  shown 
you)  the  grand  security  of  public  liberty.  Increasing  luxury  has 
multiplied  abuses  in  it.  A  monstrous  weight  of  debt  is  crippling 
it.  Vice  and  venality  are  bringing  down  upon  it  God's  dis- 
pleasure. That  spirit  to  which  it  owes  its  distinctions  is  declining  ; 
and  some  late  events  seem  to  prove  that  it  is  becoming  every  day 
more  reconcileable  to  encroachments  on  the  securities  of  its 
liberties.  It  wants  therefore  your  patriotic  services  ;  and,  for  the 
sake  of  the  distinctions  it  has  so  long  enjoyed,  for  the  sake  of  our 


RICHARD  PRICE  297 


brethren  and  companions,  and  all  that  should  be  dear  to  a  free 
people,  we  ought  to  do  our  utmost  to  save  it  from  the  dangers 
that  threaten  it,  remembering  that  by  acting  thus,  we  shall  promote 
in  the  best  manner  our  private  interest  as  well  as  the  interest  of 
our  own  country,  for  when  the  community  prospers  the  individuals 
that  compose  it  must  prosper  with  it.  But,  should  that  not 
happen,  or  should  we  even  suffer  in  our  secular  interest  by  our 
endeavours  to  promote  the  interest  of  our  country,  we  shall  feel  a 
satisfaction  in  our  own  breasts  which  is  preferable  to  all  this  world 
can  give  ;  and  we  shall  enjoy  the  transporting  hope  of  soon 
becoming  members  of  a  perfect  community  in  the  heavens,  and 
having  "an  entrance  ministered  to  us  abundantly  into  the  ever- 
lasting kingdom  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ." 

You  may  reasonably  expect  that  I  should  now  close  this  address 
to  you.  But  I  cannot  yet  dismiss  you.  I  must  not  conclude 
without  recalling  particularly  to  your  recollection  a  consideration 
to  which  I  have  more  than  once  alluded,  and  which,  probably, 
your  thoughts  have  been  all  along  anticipating  :  a  consideration 
with  which  my  mind  is  impressed  more  than  I  can  express  :  I 
mean  the  consideration  of  the  favourableness  of  the  present  times 
to  all  exertions  in  the  cause  of  public  liberty. 

What  an  eventful  period  is  this  !  I  am  thankful  that  1  have 
lived  to  it,  and  I  could  almost  say,  "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy 
servant  depart  in  peace,  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation."  I 
have  lived  to  see  a  diffusion  of  knowledge  which  has  undermined 
superstition  and  error — I  have  lived  to  see  the  rights  of  men  better 
understood  than  ever,  and  nations  panting  for  liberty  which  seemed 
to  have  lost  the  idea  of  it ;  I  have  lived  to  see  thirty  millions  of 
people,  indignant  and  resolute,  spurning  at  slavery,  and  demanding 
liberty  with  an  irresistible  voice  ;  their  king  led  in  triumph,  and 
an  arbitrary  monarch  surrendering  himself  to  his  subjects.  After 
sharing  in  the  benefits  of  one  revolution,  I  have  been  spared  to 
be  a  witness  to  two  other  revolutions,  both  glorious.  And  now, 
methinks,  I  see  the  ardour  for  liberty  catching  and  spreading  ;  a 
general  amendment  beginning  in  human  affairs  ;  the  dominion  of 
kings  changed  for  the  dominion  of  laws,  and  the  dominion  of 
priests  giving  way  to  the  dominion  of  reason  and  conscience. 

Be  encouraged  all  ye  friends  of  freedom  and  writers  in  its 
defence  !  The  times  are  auspicious.  Your  labours  have  not  been 
in  vain.  Behold  kingdoms,  admonished  by  you,  starting  from 
sleep,    breaking    their    fetters,    and    claiming   justice    from    their 


298  ENGLISH  PROSE 


oppressors  !  Behold,  the  hght  you  have  struck  out,  after  setting 
America  free,  reflected  to  France,  and  there  kindled  into  a  blaze 
that  lays  despotism  in  ashes,  and  warms  and  illuminates  Europe  ! 
Tremble  all  ye  oppressors  of  the  world  !  Take  warning  all  ye 
supporters  of  slavish  governments,  and  slavish  hierarchies  !  Call 
no  more  (absurdly  and  wickedly)  reformation  innovation.  You 
cannot  now  hold  the  world  in  darkness.  Stioiggle  no  longer 
against  increasing  light  and  liberality.  Restore  to  mankind  their 
rights,  and  consent  to  the  correction  of  abuses,  before  they  and 
you  are  destroyed  together. 


(From  Discourse  on  the  Love  of  our  Counlry.) 


SIR  JOSHUA    REYNOLDS 

[Sir  Joshua  RejTiolds  was  born  at  Plympton  Earls,  near  Plymouth,  i6th 
July  1723.  He  studied  in  London  under  Thomas  Hudson,  and  in  Italy,  which 
he  was  enabled  to  visit  by  the  generosity  of  Lord  Keppel.  He  returned  to 
London  in  1752,  where  his  genius  and  geniality  soon  secured  him  the  friend- 
ship of  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  circle,  for  whom  he  established  the  famous 
Literary  Club  in  1764.  He  was  elected  President  of  the  Royal  Academy  at 
its  foundation  in  1768,  and  retained  that  position,  except  during  a  brief 
rupture  with  the  Academicians,  until  his  death  in  February  1792.  It  was  as 
President  of  the  Royal  Academy  that  he  delivered  the  Discourses  on  which  his 
literary  fame  rests. 

They  were  published  one  by  one,  and  collected  in  Malone's  editions  of  his 
Works,  1797,  which  also  contained  his  Three  Letters  to  the  Idler,  Nos.  76, 
79,  and  82  ;  A  Journey  to  Flanders  and  Holland  in  the  Year  mdcclxxi.  ; 
and  his  Notes  on  Du  Fresnoy  s  Art  of  Painting.  He  contributed  five  notes 
to  Dr.  Johnson's  Shakespeare,  177S'  which  may  be  found  in  the  appendices 
at  the  end  of  vol.  viii.  His  Johnson  and  Garrick  was  privately  printed  by 
his  niece  in  1815,  and  W.  Cotton  has  published  various  fragments  from  his 
diaries  and  notebooks  in  the  volumes  called  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  his 
Works,  1856,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  Notes  and  Observations  on  Pictures, 
1859-] 

In  this  country  the  science  of  criticism  may  be  said  to  have 
begim,  in  hterature  with  Addison,  perhaps  the  greatest  of  EngHsh 
essayists,  in  art  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  Enghsh  painters. 

The  Discourses  of  Reynolds,  at  least,  are  the  earliest  art 
criticisms  we  have  of  any  permanent  value,  for  in  this  province 
even  Dryden  is  scarcely  of  more  account  than  Jonathan 
Richardson,  Spence,  Webb,  or  Harris.  These  writers  to  some 
e.\tent  anticipated  Reynolds'  ideas,  but  their  work  has  no 
important  place  in  the  evolution  of  the  subject,  and  therefore 
does  not  affect  the  value  of  his. 

His  methods,  like  Addison's,  were  based  on  a  foundation  of 
sobriety  and  common  sense.  In  lecturing  at  the  Academy,  "  he 
expatiated  upon  the  qualities  which  go  to  form  a  fine  picture  ;  he 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


described  the  various  schools  of  painting,  with  the  merits  and 
defects  of  each  ;  he  specified  the  characteristics  of  the  several 
masters,  showing  what  was  to  be  imitated  and  what  to  be  avoided, 
and  he  detailed  to  learners  the  modes  of  proceeding  which  would 
best  enable  them  to  appropriate  the  beauties  of  their  forerunners." 
As  an  instructor  he  laboured  under  the  difficulty  of  reconciling 
certain  traditional  formulas,  the  truth  of  which  he  never  questioned, 
with  the  particular  judgments  resulting  from  his  vigorous  critical 
faculty.  Like  the  poets  of  his  day  he  showed  "  a  disposition  to 
edge  away  from  the  types  which  he  professed  to  admit  as  ideally 
correct."  In  extolling  the  "grand  style,"  for  instance,  he  ad- 
vocated the  theory,  so  persistently  denounced  by  Mr.  Ruskin, 
"that  Nature  herself  is  not  to  be  too  closely  copied,"  yet  in  many 
passag^es  he  applauded  the  very  practice  which,  according  to  his 
principles,  he  ought  to  have  condemned.  Indeed  the  technical 
teaching  in  the  Eighth  Discourse  might  be  almost  entirely 
adopted  by  the  Pre-Raphaelites.^  "  But  the  age,"  as  Mr.  Leslie 
Stephen  remarks,  "  was  not  favourable  to  consistency  and 
thoroughness."  It  has  been  further  objected,  by  Hazlitt,  Blake, 
and  others,  that  Reynolds'  gdorification  of  industr)^  tended  to  the 
extinction  of  genius,  and  that  he  showed  his  igmorance  of  human 
nature  by  expecting  the  knowledge  of  rules  to  bear  fruit  in 
enthusiasm  and  inspiration. 

But  while  accepting  the  general  theories  of  such  men  as  Du 
Fresnoy  and  De  Piles,  and  discouraging  the  expression  of  youthful 
eccentricity,  he  commended  independence  and  originality,  and 
relied  finally  on  his  own  unrivalled  technical  experience.  He 
believed  that  excellence  and  facility  could  only  be  attained  by  a 
thoughtful  study  of  nature  and  of  art.  The  study  of  art  should 
incite  to  imitation,  by  which  alone 

' '  variety  and  even  originality  of  invention  is  produced.  ...  It  will  be 
necessary  for  you,  in  the  first  place,  never  to  lose  sight  of  the  great  rules  and 
principles  of  the  art,  as  they  are  collected  from  the  full  body  of  the  best 
general  practice  and  the  most  constant  and  uniform  experience  ;  this  must  be 
the  gi-ound-vvork  of  all  your  studies  :  afterwards  you  may  profit  ...  by  the 
peculiar  experience  and  personal  talents  of  artists  living  and  dead  ;  you  may 
derive  lights  and  catch  hints  from  their  practice  ;  but  the  moment  you  turn 
them  into  models,  you  fall  infinitely  below  them  ;  you  may  be  corrupted  by 
excellencies,  not  so  much  belonging  to  the  art,  as  personal  and  appropriated 

^  See  also  Hazlitt,  On  Certain  Inconsistencies  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds^  Dis- 
courses. 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  301 

to  the  artist ;  and  become  bad  copiers  of  good  painters,  instead  of  excellent 
imitators  of  the  great  universal  truth  of  things." 

It  was  upon  "  the  great  universal  truth  of  things "  that  he 
founded  a  theory  of  beauty,  largely  resembling  that  of  Pere 
Bufifier.  He  did  not  enter  into  the  speculations  of  such  writers 
as  Shaftesbury  and  Hutcheson,  regarding  the  nature  of  a  special 
sense  for  the  perception  of  beauty  ;  but  maintained,  with  Burke 
and  Hogarth,  the  existence  of  an  objective  standard  of  beauty. 
"  Ideal  Beauty,"  according  to  his  view,  "  is  the  invariable  general 
form  which  nature  most  frequently  produces,  and  always  seems  to 
intend  in  her  productions.  ...  In  every  particular  species  there 
are  various  central  forms,  undeniably  beautiful,"  ..."  but  perfect 
beauty  in  any  species  must  combine  all  the  characters  which  are 
beautiful  in  that,  species."  To  the  ideally  perfect  taste  these 
central  forms  appear  most  beautiful  because  they  are  most  general, 
and  not,  as  Burke  and  Hogarth  would  have  said,  because  of  their 
correspondence  to  a  determinable  "  criterion  of  form."  Though 
the  types  of  different  species  are  thus  all  equally  beautiful,  yet  from 
accidental  associations  we  may  prefer  one  to  another,  and  there 
are  certain  "apparent  or  secondary  truths"  or  beauties,  "pro- 
ceeding from  local  and  temporary  prejudices,"  which  "deserve 
and  require  the  attention  of  the  artist,  in  proportion  to  tJicir 
stability  or  duration,  or  as  their  influence  is  more  or  less  exten- 
sive "  ;  but  these  must  not  "  prevent  or  weaken  the  influence  of 
those  general  principles,  which  alone  can  give  to  art  its  true  and 
permanent  dignity." 

But  the  spirit  of  his  teaching  was  perhaps  as  helpful  as  its 
l^hilosophy.  By  setting  before  his  students  an  ideal  of  culture, 
earnestness,  and  reverence,  he  raised  their  whole  conceptions  of 
art ;  and  by  keeping  their  minds  on  high  things,  he  taught  them 
the  uses  of  humility  and  ambition.  His  Discourses,  moreover, 
were  very  popular  with  "  The  Town,"  the  reading  public  of  the 
day.  He  established  a  national  standard  in  art,  as  Addison  had 
done  in  literature,  and,  according  to  Mr.  Courthope,  these  two 
critics  accomplished  more  than  any  others  in  England  towards 
"  the  end  of  criticism,  which  is  to  produce  a  habit  of  reasoning 
rightly  in  matters  of  taste  and  imagination." 

The  personal  charm  and  strength  of  character,  which  doubtless 
assisted  the  universal  recognition  of  his  genius  may  account  in 
part  for  the  great  influence  of  his  writings.  His  style,  though 
somewhat  formal,   was  graceful,   simple,   and   urbane.       He  had 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


been  trained  in  the  classical  school  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  "  qualified 
him  to  think  justly,"  but  fortunately  his  admiration  of  the  master 
did  not  tempt  him  to  forget,  in  composition,  the  true  principles  of 
imitation  which  he  expounded  in  the  Discourses. 

The  spirited  imaginaiy  dialogues,  o.'d^A^^  JoJinson  and  Garrick, 
must  not  be  forgotten  in  an  estimate  of  Reynolds'  work  in 
literature.  This  witty  jcu  d^csprit^  in  which  the  doctor's  manner 
is  most  happily  burlesqued,  was  written  by  Reynolds  to  illustrate 
his  saying  that  "  Dr.  Johnson  considered  Garrick  as  his  property, 
and  would  not  suffer  any  one  to  praise  or  blame  him  but  himself." 
As  its  author's  only  attempt  at  imaginative  composition,  it  is  a 
remarkable  achievement. 

Reginald  Brimley  Johnson. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO 

The  sudden  maturity  to  which  Michael  Angelo  brought  our  art, 
and  the  comparative  feebleness  of  his  followers  and  imitators, 
might  perhaps  be  reasonably,  at  least  plausibly  explained,  if  we 
had  time  for  such  an  examination.  At  present  I  shall  only 
observe,  that  the  subordinate  parts'  of  our  art,  and  perhaps  of 
other  arts,  expand  themselves  by  a  slow  and  progressive  growth  ; 
but  those  which  depend  on  a  native  vigour  of  imagination 
generally  burst  forth  at  once  in  fulness  of  beauty.  Of  this 
Homer  probably,  and  Shakespeare  more  assuredly,  are  signal 
examples.  Michael  Angelo  possessed  the  poetical  part  of  our 
art  in  a  most  eminent  degree :  and  the  same  daring  spirit, 
which  urged  him  first  to  explore  the  unknown  regions  of  the 
imagination,  delighted  with  the  novelty,  and  animated  by  the 
success  of  his  discoveries,  could  not  have  failed  to  stimulate  and 
impel  him  forward  in  his  career  beyond  those  limits,  which  his 
followers,  destitute  of  the  same  incentives,  had  not  strength 
to  pass. 

To  distinguish  between  correctness  of  drawing,  and  that  part 
which  respects  the  imagination,  we  may  say  the  one  approaches 
to  the  mechanical  (which  in  its  way  too  may  make  just  pretensions 
to  genius),  and  the  other  to  the  poetical.  To  encourage  a  solid 
and  vigorous  course  of  study,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  suggest, 
that  perhaps  a  confidence  in  the  mechanic  produces  a  boldness 
in  the  poetic.  He  that  is  sure  of  the  goodness  of  his  ship  and 
tackle  puts  out  fearlessly  from  the  shore  ;  and  he  who  knows 
that  his  hand  can  execute  whatever  his  fancy  can  suggest,  sports 
with  more  freedom  in  embodying  the  visionary  forms  of  his  own 
creation.  I  will  not  say  Michael  Angelo  was  eminently  poetical, 
only  because  he  was  greatly  mechanical ;  but  I  am  sure  that 
mechanic  excellence  invigorated  and  emboldened  his  mind  to 
carry  painting  into  the  regions  of  poetry,  and  to  emulate  that  art 


304  ENGLISH  PROSE 


in  its  most  adventurous  flights.  Michael  Angelo  equally  possessed 
both  qualifications.  Yet  of  mechanic  excellence  there  were 
certainly  great  examples  to  be  found  in  ancient  sculpture,  and 
particularly  in  the  fragment  known  by  the  name  of  the  Torso  of 
Michael  Angelo ;  but  of  that  grandeur  of  character,  air,  and 
attitude,  which  he  threw  into  all  his  figures,  and  which  so  well 
corresponds  with  the  grandeur  of  his  outline,  there  was  no 
example  ;  it  could  therefore  proceed  only  from  the  most  poetical 
and  sublime  imagination. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  express  some  surprise,  that  the  race  of 
painters  who  preceded  Michael  Angelo,  men  of  acknowledged 
great  abilities,  should  never  have  thought  of  transferring  a  little 
of  that  grandeur  of  outline  which  they  could  not  but  see  and 
admire  in  ancient  sculpture,  into  their  own  works  ;  but  they 
appear  to  have  considered  sculpture  as  the  later  schools  of 
artists  look  at  the  inventions  of  Michael  Angelo, — as  something 
to  be  admired,  but  with  which  they  have  nothing  to  do  :  quod 
super  nos,  7iihil  ad  nos.  The  artists  of  that  age,  even  Raffaelle 
himself,  seemed  to  be  going  on  very  contentedly  in  the  dry 
manner  of  Pietro  Perugino  ;  and  if  Michael  Angelo  had  never 
appeared,  the  art  might  still  have  continued  in  the  same  style. 

Beside  Rome  and  Florence,  where  the  grandeur  of  this  style 
was  first  displayed,  it  was  on  this  foundation  that  the  Caracci 
built  the  truly  great  academical  Bolognian  school,  of  which  the 
first  stone  was  laid  by  Pellegrino  Tibaldi.  He  first  introduced 
this  style  amongst  them  ;  and  many  instances  might  be  given  in 
which  he  appears  to  have  possessed  as  by  inheritance,  the  true, 
genuine,  noble,  and  elevated  mind  of  Michael  Angelo.  Though 
we  cannot  venture  to  speak  of  him  with  the  same  fondness  as  his 
countrymen,  and  call  him,  as  the  Garacci  did.  Nostra  Michael 
Angelo  riformato,  yet  he  has  a  right  to  be  considered  amongst 
the  first  and  greatest  of  his  followers  :  there  are  certainly  many 
drawings  and  inventions  of  his,  of  which  Michael  Angelo  himself 
might  not  disdain  to  be  supposed  the  author,  or  that  they  should 
be,  as  in  fact  they  often  are,  mistaken  for  his.  I  will  mention 
one  particular  instance,  because  it  is  found  in  a  book  which  is  in 
every  young  artist's  hand  ;  Bishop's  Ancient  Statues.  He  there 
has  introduced  a  print,  representing  Polyphemus,  from  a  drawing 
of  Tibaldi,  and  has  inscribed  it  with  the  name  of  Michael  Angelo, 
to  whom  he  has  also  in  the  same  book  attributed  a  Sybil  of 
Raffaelle.      Both    these    figures,    it    is    true,    are    professedly    in 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  305 

Michael  Angelo's  style  and  spirit,  and  even  worthy  of  his  hand. 
But  we  know  that  the  former  is  painted  in  the  Institute  a  Bologna 
by  Tibaldi,  and  the  other  in  the  Pace  by  Raffaelle. 

The  Caracci,  it  is  acknowledged,  adopted  the  mechanical  part 
with  sufficient  success.  But  the  divine  part,  which  addresses 
itself  to  the  imagination,  as  possessed  by  Michael  Angelo  or 
Tibaldi,  was  beyond  their  grasp  :  they  formed,  however,  a  most 
respectable  school,  a  style  more  on  the  level,  and  calculated  to 
please  a  greater  number  ;  and  if  excellence  of  this  kind  is  to  be 
valued  according  to  the  number,  rather  than  the  weight  and 
quality  of  admirers,  it  would  assume  even  a  higher  rank  in  Art. 
The  same,  in  some  sort,  may  be  said  of  Tintoret,  Paolo  Veronese, 
and  others  of  the  Venetian  painters.  They  certainly  much 
advanced  the  dignity  of  their  style  by  adding  to  their  fascinating 
powers  of  colouring  something  of  the  strength  of  Michael  Angelo  : 
at  the  same  time  it  may  still  be  a  doubt,  how  far  their  ornamental 
elegance  would  be  an  advantageous  addition  to  his  grandeur. 
But  if  there  is  any  manner  of  painting  which  may  be  said  to 
unite  kindly  with  his  style,  it  is  that  of  Titian.  His  handling, 
the  manner  in  which  his  colours  are  left  on  the  canvass,  appears 
to  proceed  (as  far  as  that  goes)  from  a  congenial  mind,  equally 
disdainful  of  vulgar  criticism. 

Michael  Angelo's  strength  thus  qualified,  and  made  more 
palatable  to  the  general  taste,  reminds  me  of  an  observation 
which  I  heard  a  learned  critic  make,  when  it  was  incidentally 
remarked,  that  our  translation  of  Homer,  however  excellent,  did 
not  convey  the  character,  nor  had  the  grand  air  of  the  original. 
He  replied,  that  if  Pope  had  not  clothed  the  naked  majesty  of 
Homer  with  the  graces  and  eiegancies  of  modern  fashions— 
though  the  real  dignity  of  Homer  was  degraded  by  such  a  dress — 
his  translation  would  not  have  met  with  such  a  favourable 
reception,  and  he  must  have  been  contented  with  fewer  readers. 

Many  of  the  Flemish  painters,  who  studied  at  Rome  in  that 
great  era  of  our  art,  such  as  Francis  Floris,  Hemskerk,  Michael 
Coxis,  Jerom  Cock,  and  others,  returned  to  their  own  country 
with  as  much  of  this  grandeur  as  they  could  carry.  But  like 
seeds  falling  on  a  soil  not  prepared  or  adapted  to  their  nature, 
the  manner  of  Michael  Angelo  thrived  but  little  with  them ; 
perhaps,  however,  they  contributed  to  prepare  the  way  for  that 
free,  unconstrained,  and  liberal  outline,  which  was  afterwards  in- 
troduced by  Rubens,  through  the  medium  of  the  Venetian  painters. 

VOL.  IV  X 


^,o6  ENGLISH  PILOSE 


The  grandeur  of  style  has  been  in  different  degrees  dis- 
seminated over  all  Europe.  Some  caught  it  by  living  at  the 
time,  and  coming  into  contact  with  the  original  author,  whilst 
others  received  it  at  second  hand  ;  and  being  eveiywhere  adopted, 
it  has  totally  changed  the  whole  taste  and  style  of  design,  if 
there  could  be  said  to  be  any  style  before  his  time.  Our  art, 
in  consequence,  now  assumes  a  rank  to  which  it  could  never 
have  dared  to  aspire,  if  Michael  Angelo  had  not  discovered 
to  the  world  the  hidden  powers  which  it  possessed.  Without  his 
assistance  we  never  could  have  been  convinced,  that  painting 
was  capable  of  producing  an  adequate  representation  of  the 
persons  and  actions  of  the  heroes  of  the  Iliad. 

I  would  ask  any  man  qualified  to  judge  of  such  works  whether 
he  can  look  with  indifference  at  the  personification  of  the  Supreme 
Being  in  the  centre  of  the  Capella  Sistina,  or  the  figures  of  the 
sybils  which  surround  that  chapel,  to  which  we  may  add  the 
statue  of  Moses  ;  and  whether  the  same  sensations  are  not  excited 
by  those  works,  as  what  he  may  remember  to  have  felt  from  the 
most  sublime  passages  of  Homer  ?  I  mention  those  figures  more 
particularly,  as  they  come  nearer  to  a  comparison  with  his  Jupiter, 
his  demi-gods,  and  heroes  ;  those  sybils  and  prophets  being  a 
kind  of  intermediate  beings  between  men  and  angels.  Though 
instances  may  be  produced  in  the  works  of  other  painters  which 
may  justly  stand  in  competition  with  those  I  have  mentioned,  such 
as  the  Isaiah,  and  the  Vision  of  Ezekiel,  by  Raffaelle,  the  St.  Mark 
of  Frate  Bartolomeo,  and  many  others  ;  yet  these,  it  must  be 
allowed,  are  inventions  so  much  in  Michael  Angelo's  manner 
of  thinking,  that  they  may  be  truly  considered  as  so  many 
rays,  which  discover  manifestly  the  centre  from  whence  they 
emanated. 

The  sublime  in  painting,  as  in  poetry,  so  overpowers  and  takes 
such  a  possession  of  the  whole  mind,  that  no  room  is  left  for 
attention  to  minute  criticism.  The  little  elegancies  of  art  in  the 
presence  of  these  great  ideas  thus  greatly  expressed,  lose  all 
their  value,  and  are,  for  the  instant  at  least,  felt  to  be  unworthy 
of  our  notice.  The  correct  judgment,  the  purity  of  taste,  which 
characterise  Raffaelle,  the  exquisite  grace  of  Coreggio  and 
Parmegiano,  all  disappear  before  them. 

That  Michael  Angelo  was  capricious  in  his  inventions  cannot 
be  denied  ;  and  this  may  make  some  circumspection  necessary  in 
studying  his  works  ;  for  though  they  appear  to  become  him,  an 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  307 

imitation  of  them  is  always  dangerous,  and  will  prove  sometimes 
ridiculous.  "Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he."  To 
me,  I  confess  his  caprice  does  not  lower  the  estimation  of  his  genius, 
even  though  it  is  sometimes,  I  acknowledge,  carried  to  the 
extreme  :  and  however  these  eccentric  excursions  are  considered, 
we  must  at  the  same  time  recollect  that  those  faults,  if  they  are 
faults,  are  such  as  never  could  occur  to  a  mean  and  vulgar  mind  ; 
that  they  flowed  from  the  same  source  which  produced  his  greatest 
beauties,  and  were  therefore  such  as  none  but  himself  was  capable 
of  committing  ;  they  were  the  powerful  impulses  of  a  mind  unused 
to  subjection  of  any  kind,  and  too  high  to  be  controlled  by  cold 
criticism. 

Many  see  his  daring  extravagance  who  can  see  nothing  else. 
A  young  artist  finds  the  works  of  Michael  Angelo  so  totally 
different  from  those  of  his  own  master,  or  of  those  with  whom  he 
is  surrounded,  that  he  may  be  easily  persuaded  to  abandon  and 
neglect  studying  a  style  which  appears  to  him  wild,  mysterious, 
and  above  his  comprehension,  and  which  he  therefore  feels  no 
disposition  to  admire  ;  a  good  disposition,  which  he  concludes 
that  he  should  naturally  have,  if  the  style  deserved  it.  It  is 
necessary,  therefore,  that  students  should  be  prepared  for  the  dis- 
appointment which  they  may  experience  at  their  first  setting  out  ; 
and  they  must  be  cautioned  that  probably  they  will  not,  at  first 
sight,  approve. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  this  great  style  itself  is  artificial 
in  the  highest  degree  ;  it  presupposes  in  the  spectator  a  cultivated 
and  prepared  artifical  state  of  mind.  It  is  an  absurdity,  therefore, 
to  suppose  that  we  are  born  with  this  taste,  though  we  are  with 
the  seeds  of  it,  which,  by  the  heat  and  kindly  influence  of  his 
genius,  may  be  ripened  in  us. 

A  late  philosopher  and  critic  has  observed,  speaking  of  taste, 
that  we  are  on  no  accowtt  to  expect  thai  fine  tilings  should  descend 
to  us — our  taste,  if  possible,  must  be  made  to  ascend  to  them. 
The  same  learned  writer  recommends  to  us  eve7i  to  feign  a  relish 
till  wc  find  a  relish  come  j  and  feel,  that  what  began  in  fiction, 
tcrniitiates  in  reality.  If  there  be  in  our  art  anything  of  that 
agreement  or  compact,  such  as  I  apprehend  there  is  in  music, 
with  which  the  critic  is  necessarily  required  previously  to  be 
acquainted  in  order  to  form  a  correct  judgment,  the  comparison 
with  this  art  will  illustrate  what  I  have  said  on  these  points,  and 
tend  to  show  the  probability,  we  may  say  the  certainty,  that  men 


3o8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


are  not  born  with  a  relish  for  those  arts  in  their  most  refined 
state,  which,  as  they  cannot  understand,  they  cannot  be  impressed 
with  their  effects.  This  great  style  of  Michael  Angelo  is  as  far 
removed  from  the  simple  representation  of  the  common  objects  of 
nature  as  the  most  refined  Italian  music  is  from  the  inartificial 
notes  of  nature,  from  whence  they  both  profess  to  originate.  But 
without  such  a  supposed  compact  we  may  be  very  confident  that 
the  highest  state  of  refinement  in  either  of  those  arts  will  not  be 
relished  without  a  long  and  industrious  attention. 

In  pursuing  this  great  art  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  we 
labour  under  greater  difficulties  than  those  who  were  bom  in  the 
age  of  its  discover}^,  and  whose  minds  from  their  infancy  were 
habituated  to  this  style  ;  who  learned  it  as  a  language,  as  their 
mother  tongue.  They  had  no  mean  taste  to  unlearn  ;  they  needed 
no  persuasive  discourse  to  allure  them  to  a  favourable  reception 
of  it,  no  abstruse  investigation  of  its  principles  to  convince  them 
of  the  great  latent  truths  on  which  it  is  founded.  We  are  con- 
strained, in  these  latter  days,  to  have  recourse  to  a  sort  of  grammar 
and  dictionary,  as  the  only  means  of  recovering  a  dead  language. 
It  was  by  them  learned  by  rote,  and  perhaps  better  learned  that 
way  than  by  precept. 

The  style  of  Michael  Angelo,  which  I  have  compared  to 
language,  and  which  may,  poetically  speaking,  be  called  the 
language  of  the  gods,  now  no  longer  exists  as  it  did  in  the  fifteenth 
century  ;  yet,  with  the  aid  of  diligence,  we  may  in  a  great  measure 
supply  the  deficiency  which  I  mentioned,  of  not  having  his  works 
so  perpetually  before  our  eyes,  by  having  recourse  to  casts  from 
his  models  and  designs  in  sculpture,  to  drawings,  or  even  copies 
of  those  drawings,  to  prints  which,  however  ill  executed,  still  con- 
vey something  by  which  this  taste  may  be  formed,  and  a  relish 
may  be  fixed  and  established  in  our  minds  for  this  grand  style  of 
invention.  Some  examples  of  this  kind  we  have  in  the  Academy, 
and  I  sincerely  wish  there  were  more,  that  the  younger  students 
might  in  their  first  nourishment  imbibe  this  taste  ;  whilst  others, 
though  settled  in  the  practice  of  the  commonplace  style  of  painters, 
might  infuse,  by  this  means,  a  grandeur  into  their  works. 

I  shall  now  make  some  remarks  on  the  course  which  I 
think  most  proper  to  be  pursued  in  such  a  study.  I  wish  you 
not  to  go  so  much  to  the  derivative  streams,  as  to  the  fountain- 
head  ;  though  the  copies  are  not  to  be  neglected  ;  because  they 
may  give  you   hints  in  what  manner  you  may  copy,   and  how 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  309 


the  genius  of  one  man  may  be  made  to  fit  the  pecuHar  manner 
of  another. 

To  recover  this  lost  taste,  I  would  recommend  young  artists 
to  study  the  works  of  Michael  Angelo,  as  he  himself  did  the 
works  of  the  ancient  sculptors  ;  he  began  when  a  child,  a  copy 
of  a  mutilated  Satyr's  head,  and  finished  in  his  model  what  was 
wanting  in  the  original.  In  the  same  manner,  the  first  exercise 
that  I  would  recommend  to  the  young  artist  when  he  first 
attempts  invention,  is,  to  select  every  figure,  if  possible,  from 
the  inventions  of  Michael  Angelo.  If  such  borrowed  figures 
will  not  bend  to  his  purpose,  and  he  is  constrained  to  make  a 
change  to  supply  a  figure  himself,  that  figure  will  necessarily  be 
in  the  same  style  with  the  rest ;  and  his  taste  will  by  this  means 
be  naturally  initiated,  and  nursed  in  the  lap  of  grandeur.  He 
will  sooner  perceive  what  constitutes  this  grand  style  by  one 
practical  trial  than  by  a  thousand  speculations,  and  he  will  in 
some  sort  procure  to  himself  that  advantage  which  in  these 
later  ages  has  been  denied  him  :  the  advantage  of  having  the 
greatest  of  artists  for  his  master  and  instructor. 

The  next  lesson  should  be,  to  change  the  purpose  of  the 
figures  without  changing  the  attitude,  as  Tintoret  has  done 
with  the  Sampson  of  Michael  Angelo.  Instead  of  the  figure 
which  Sampson  bestrides,  he  has  placed  an  eagle  under  him  ; 
and  instead  of  the  jawbone,  thunder  and  lightning  in  his  right 
hand ;  and  thus  it  becomes  a  Jupiter.  Titian,  in  the  same 
manner,  has  taken  the  figure  which  represents  God  dividing  the 
light  from  the  darkness  in  the  vault  of  the  Capella  Sistina, 
and  has  introduced  it  in  the  famous  battle  of  Cadore,  so  much 
celebrated  by  Vasari ;  and  extraordinary  as  it  may  seem,  it  is 
here  converted  to  a  general  falling  from  his  horse.  A  real 
judge  who  should  look  at  this  picture,  would  immediately 
pronounce  the  attitude  of  that  figure  to  be  in  a  greater  style 
than  any  other  figure  of  the  composition.  These  two  instances 
may  be  sufficient,  though  many  more  might  be  given  in  their 
works,  as  well  as  in  those  of  other  great  artists. 

When  the  student  has  been  habituated  to  this  grand  con- 
ception of  the  art,  when  the  relish  for  this  style  is  established, 
makes  a  part  of  himself,  and  is  woven  into  his  mind,  he  will, 
by  this  time,  have  got  a  power  of  selecting  from  whatever  occurs 
in  nature  that  is  grand,  and  corresponds  with  that  taste  which 
he  has  now  acquired  ;  and  will  pass  over  whatever  is  common- 


3IO  ENGLISH  PROSE 


place  and  insipid.  He  may  then  bring  to  the  mart  such  works 
of  his  own  proper  invention  as  may  enrich  and  increase  the 
general  stock  of  invention  in  our  art. 

I  am  confident  of  the  truth  and  propriety  of  the  advice  which 
I  have  recommended  ;  at  the  same  time  I  am  aware,  how  much 
by  this  advice  I  have  laid  myself  open  to  the  sarcasms  of  those 
critics  who  imagine  our  art  to  be  a  matter  of  inspiration.  But 
I  should  be  sorry  it  should  appear  even  to  myself  that  I  wanted 
that  courage  which  I  have  recommended  to  the  students  in 
another  way  :  equal  courage  perhaps  is  required  in  the  adviser 
and  the  advised  ;  they  both  must  equally  dare  and  bid  defiance 
to  narrow  criticism  and  vulgar  opinion. 

That  the  art  has  been  in  a  gradual  state  of  decline,  from  the 
age  of  Michael  Angelo  to  the  present,  must  be  acknowledged, 
and  we  may  reasonably  impute  this  declension  to  the  same 
cause  to  which  the  ancient  critics  and  philosophers  have  imputed 
the  corruption  of  eloquence.  Indeed  the  same  causes  are  likely 
at  all  times  and  in  all  ages  to  produce  the  same  effects  :  indol- 
ence,— not  taking  the  same  pains  as  our  great  predecessors 
took, — desiring  to  find  a  shorter  way,  are  the  general  imputed 
causes.  The  words  of  Petronius  are  very  remarkable.  After 
opposing  the  natural  chaste  beauty  of  the  eloquence  of  former 
ages  to  the  strained  inflated  style  then  in  fashion,  "  neither," 
says  he,  "  has  the  art  in  painting  had  a  better  fate,  after  the 
boldness  of  the  Egyptians  had  found  out  a  compendious  way  to 
execute  so  great  an  art." 

By  compendious,  I  understand  him  to  mean  a  mode  of 
painting,  such  as  has  infected  the  style  of  the  later  painters  of 
Italy  and  France  ;  common-place,  without  thought,  and  with  as 
little  trouble,  working  as  by  a  receipt ;  in  contra-distinction  to 
that  style  for  which  even  a  relish  cannot  be  acquired  without 
care  and  long  attention,  and  most  certainly  the  power  of  executing 
cannot  be  obtained  without  the  most  laborious  application. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  stimulate  the  ambition  of  artists  to 
tread  in  this  great  path  of  glory,  and,  as  well  as  I  can,  have 
pointed  out  the  track  which  leads  to  it,  and  have  at  the  same 
time  told  them  the  price  at  which  it  may  be  obtained.  It  is  an 
ancient  saying,  that  labour  is  the  price  which  the  gods  have  set 
upon  everything  valuable. 

The  great  artist  who  has  been  so  much  the  subject  of  the 
present   discourse,   was   distinguished  even  from  his  infancy  for 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  311 

his  indefatigable  diligence  ;  and  this  was  continued  through  his 
whole  life,  till  prevented  by  extreme  old  age.  The  poorest  of 
men,  as  he  observed  himself,  did  not  labour  from  necessity, 
more  than  he  did  from  choice.  Indeed,  from  all  the  circum- 
stances related  of  his  life,  he  appears  not  to  have  had  the  least 
conception  that  his  art  was  to  be  acquired  by  any  other 
means  than  great  labour ;  and  yet  he,  of  all  men  that  ever  lived, 
might  make  the  greatest  pretensions  to  the  efficacy  of  native 
genius  and  inspiration.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  would  have 
thought  it  no  disgrace  that  it  should  be  said  of  him,  as  he 
himself  said  of  Raffaelle,  that  he  did  not  possess  his  art  from 
nature,  but  by  long  study.  He  was  conscious  that  the  great 
excellence  to  which  he  arrived  was  gained  by  dint  of  labour, 
and  was  unwilling  to  have  it  thought  that  any  transcendent  skill, 
however  natural  its  effect  might  seem,  could  be  purchased  at  a 
cheaper  price  than  he  had  paid  for  it.  This  seems  to  have 
been  the  true  drift  of  his  observation.  We  cannot  suppose  it 
made  with  any  intention  of  depreciating  the  genius  of  Raffaelle, 
of  whom  he  always  spoke,  as  Condivi  says,  with  the  greatest 
respect :  though  they  were  rivals,  no  such  illiberality  existed 
between  them  ;  and  Raffaelle  on  his  part  entertained  the  greatest 
veneration  for  Michael  Angelo,  as  appears  from  the  speech  which 
is  recorded  of  him,  that  he  congratulated  himself,  and  thanked 
God,  that  he  was  born  in  the  same  age  with  that  painter. 

If  the  high  esteem  and  veneration  in  which  Michael  Angelo 
has  been  held  by  all  nations  and  in  all  ages,  should  be  put  to 
the  account  of  prejudice,  it  must  still  be  granted  that  those 
prejudices  could  not  have  been  entertained  without  a  cause  :  the 
ground  of  our  prejudice  then  becomes  the  source  of  our  admira- 
tion. But  from  whatever  it  proceeds,  or  whatever  it  is  called, 
it  will  not,  I  hope,  be  thought  presumptuous  in  me  to  appear 
in  the  train,  I  cannot  say  of  his  imitators,  but  of  his  admirers. 
I  have  taken  another  course,  one  more  suited  to  my  abilities, 
and  to  the  taste  of  the  times  in  which  I  live.  Yet  however 
unequal  I  feel  myself  to  that  attempt,  were  I  now  to  begin  the 
world  again,  I  would  tread  in  the  steps  of  that  great  master  :  to 
kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment,  to  catch  the  slightest  of  his 
perfections,  would  be  glory  and  distinction  enough  for  an 
ambitious  man. 

I  feel  a  self  congratulation  in  knowing  myself  capable  of 
such  sensations  as  he  intended  to  excite.      I  reflect,  not  without 


312  ENGLISH  PROSE 


vanity,  that  these  discourses  bear  testimony  to  my  admiration  of 
that  truly  divine  man  ;  and  I  should  desire  that  the  last  words 
which  I  should  pronounce  in  this  academy,  and  from  this  place, 
might  be  the  name  of — Michael  Angelo. 

(From  the  Fiftcoitli  Discourse.^ 


MAXIMS    OF    ART 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  arts  to  be  enveloped  in  mysterious  and 
incomprehensible  language,  as  if  it  was  thought  necessary  that 
even  the  terms  should  correspond  to  the  idea  entertained  of  the 
instability  and  uncertainty  of  the  rules  which  they  expressed. 

To  speak  of  genius  and  taste,  as  in  any  way  connected  with 
reason  or  common  sense,  would  be,  in  the  opinion  of  some 
towering  talkers,  to  speak  like  a  man  who  possessed  neither  ; 
who  had  never  felt  that  enthusiasm,  or,  to  use  their  own  inflated 
language,  was  never  warmed  by  that  Promethean  fire,  which 
animates  the  canvas  and  vivifies  the  marble. 

If,  in  order  to  be  intelligible,  I  appear  to  degrade  art  by 
bringing  her  down  from  her  visionary  situation  in  the  clouds,  it 
is  only  to  give  her  a  more  solid  mansion  upon  the  earth.  It  is 
necessary  that  at  some  time  or  other  we  should  see  things  as 
they  really  are,  and  not  impose  on  ourselves  by  that  false 
magnitude  with  which  objects  appear  when  viewed  indistinctly  as 
through  a  mist. 

We  will  allow  a  poet  to  e.xpress  his  meaning,  when  his  mean- 
ing is  not  well  known  to  himself,  with  a  certain  degree  of 
obscurity,  as  it  is  one  sort  of  the  sublime.  But  when,  in  plain 
prose,  we  gravely  talk  of  courting  the  muse  in  shady  bowers  ; 
waiting  the  call  and  inspiration  of  genius,  finding  out  where  he 
inhabits,  and  where  he  is  to  be  invoked  with  the  greatest  success  ; 
of  attending  to  times  and  seasons  when  the  imagination  shoots 
with  the  greatest  vigour,  whether  at  the  summer  solstice  or  the 
vernal  equinox  ;  sagaciously  observing  how  much  the  wild 
freedom  and  liberty  of  imagination  is  cramped  by  attention  to 
established  rules  ;  and  how  this  same  imagination  begins  to  grow 
dim  in  advanced  age,  smothered  and  deadened  by  too  much 
judgment  ;    when    we    talk    such    language,    or    entertain    such 


S/R  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  313 

sentiments  as  these,  we  generally  rest  contented  with  mere  words, 
or  at  best  entertain  notions  not  only  groundless  but  pernicious. 

If  all  this  means,  what  it  is  very  possible  was  originally 
intended  only  to  be  meant,  that  in  order  to  cultivate  an  art,  a 
man  secludes  himself  from  the  commerce  of  the  world,  and 
retires  into  the  country  at  particular  seasons  :  or  that  at  one 
time  of  the  year  his  body  is  in  better  health,  and  consequently 
his  mind  fitter  for  the  business  of  hard  thinking  than  at  another 
time  ;  or  that  the  mind  may  be  fatigued  and  grow  confused  by 
long  and  unremitted  application  ;  this  I  can  understand.  I  can 
likewise  believe,  that  a  man  eminent  when  young  for  possessing 
poetical  imagination,  may,  from  having  taken  another  road,  so 
neglect  its  cultivation,  as  to  show  less  of  its  powers  in  his  latter 
life.  But  I  am  persuaded,  that  scarce  a  poet  is  to  be  found, 
from  Homer  down  to  Dryden,  who  preserved  a  sound  mind  in  a 
sound  body,  and  continued  practising  his  profession  to  the  very 
last,  whose  latter  works  are  not  as  replete  with  the  fire  of 
imagination,  as  those  which  were  produced  in  his  more  youthful 
days. 

To  understand  literally  these  metaphors,  or  ideas  expressed 
in  poetical  language,  seems  to  be  equally  absurd  as  to  conclude, 
that  because  painters  sometimes  represent  poets  writing  from  the 
dictates  of  a  little  winged  boy  or  genius,  that  this  same  genius 
did  really  inform  him  in  a  whisper  what  he  was  to  write  ;  and 
that  he  is  himself  but  a  mere  machine,  unconscious  of  the 
operations  of  his  own  mind. 

I  have  mentioned  taste  in  dress,  which  is  certainly  one  of  the 
lowest  subjects  to  which  this  word  is  applied  ;  yet,  as  I  have 
before  observed,  there  is  a  right  even  here,  however  narrow  its 
foundation,  respecting  the  fashion  of  any  particular  nation.  But 
we  have  still  more  slender  means  of  determining,  to  which  of  the 
different  customs  of  different  ages  or  countries  we  ought  to  give 
the  preference,  since  they  seem  to  be  all  equally  removed  from 
nature.  If  an  European,  when  he  has  cut  off  his  beard,  and  put 
false  hair  on  his  head,  or  bound  up  his  own  natural  hair  in 
regular  hard  knots,  as  unlike  nature  as  he  can  possibly  make  it  ; 
and  after  having  rendered  them  immovable  by  the  help  of  the 
fat  of  hogs,  has  covered  the  whole  with  flour,  laid  on  by  a 
machine  with  the  utmost  regularity  ;  if,  when  thus  attired,  he 
issues  forth,  and  meets  a  Cherokee  Indian,  who  has  bestowed  as 


314  ENGLISH  PROSE 


much  time  at  his  toilet,  and  laid  on  with  equal  care  and  attention 
his  yellow  and  red  oker  on  particular  parts  of  his  forehead  or 
cheeks,  as  he  judges  most  becoming ;  whoever  of  these  two 
despises  the  other  for  this  attention  to  the  fashion  of  his  country, 
whichever  first  feels  himself  provoked  to  laugh,  is  the  barbarian. 

(From  the  Seventh  Discourse.) 


BEAUTY 

The  art  which  we  profess  has  beauty  for  its  object  ;  this  it  is 
our  business  to  discover  and  to  express  ;  the  beauty  of  which  we 
are  in  quest  is  general  and  intellectual ;  it  is  an  idea  that  subsists 
only  in  the  mind  ;  the  sight  never  beheld  it,  nor  has  the  hand 
expressed  it :  it  is  an  idea  residing  in  the  breast  of  the  artist, 
which  he  is  always  labouring  to  impart,  and  which  he  dies  at  last 
without  imparting ;  but  which  he  is  yet  so  far  able  to  com- 
municate, as  to  raise  the  thoughts,  and  extend  the  views  of  the 
spectator ;  and  which,  by  a  succession  of  art,  may  be  so  far 
diffused,  that  its  effects  may  extend  themselves  imperceptibly  into 
public  benefits,  and  be  ainong  the  means  of  bestowing  on  whole 
nations  refinement  of  taste  :  which,  if  it  does  not  lead  directly  to 
purity  of  manners,  obviates  at  least  their  greatest  depravation, 
by  disentangling  the  mind  from  appetite,  and  conducting  the 
thoughts  through  successive  stages  of  excellence,  till  that  con- 
templation of  universal  rectitude  and  harmony  which  began  by 
taste,  may,  as  it  is  exalted  and  refined,  conclude  in  virtue. 

(From  the  Nmth  Discourse.) 


JOHNSON     AGAINST     GARRICK 

Dr.  Johfison  and  Sir  Jos  Jam  Reynolds 

Reytiolds.  Let  me  alone,  I'll  bring  him  out  {Aside).  I  have 
been  thinking.  Dr.  Johnson,  this  morning,  on  a  matter  that  has 
puzzled  me  very  much  ;  it  is  a  subject  that  I  daresay  has  often 
passed  in  your  thoughts,  and  though  /  cannot,  I  dare  S2t.Y  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  upon  it. 


SIRJOSHUA  REYNOLDS  315 


Johnson.  Tilly  fally  !  what  is  all  this  preparation,  what  is  all 
this  mighty  matter  ? 

Rcyn.  Why,  it  is  a  very  weighty  matter.  The  subject  I  have 
been  thinking  upon  is,  predestination  and  freewill,  two  things  I 
cannot  reconcile  together  for  the  life  of  me  ;  in  my  opinion,  Dr. 
Johnson,  freewill  and  foreknowledge  cannot  be  reconciled. 

Johns.  Sir,  it  is  not  of  very  great  importance  what  your  opinion 
is  upon  such  a  question. 

Reyn.  But  I  meant  only.  Dr.  J.,  to  know  your  opinion. 
Johns.  No,  sir,  you  meant  no  such  thing  ;  you  meant  only  to 
show  these  gentlemen  that  you  are  not  the  man  they  took  you  to 
be,  but  that  you  think  of  high  matters  sometimes,  and  that  you 
may  have  the  credit  of  having  it  said  that  you  held  an  argument 
with  Sam  Johnson  on  predestination  and  freewill ;  a  subject  of 
that  magnitude  as  to  have  engaged  the  attention  of  the  world, 
to  have  perplexed  the  wisdom  of  man  for  these  two  thousand 
years  ;  a  subject  on  which  the  fallen  angels,  who  had  not  yet  lost 
their  original  brightness,  find  themselves  in  iuatideri?ig  mazes  lost. 
That  such  a  subject  would  be  discussed  in  the  levity  of  convivial 
conversation,  is  a  degree  of  absurdity  beyond  what  is  easily 
conceivable. 

Rcyn.  It  is  so,  as  you  say,  to  be  sure  ;  I  talked  once  to  our 
friend  Garrick  upon  this  subject,  but  I  remember  we  could  make 
nothing  of  it. 

Johns.    O  noble  pair  ! 

Rcyn.  Garrick  was  a  clever  fellow.  Dr.  J.  :  Garrick,  take  him 
altogether,  was  certainly  a  very  great  man. 

Johns.  Garrick,  sir,  may  be  a  great  man  in  your  opinion,  so 
far  as  I  know,  but  he  was  not  so  in  mine  ;  little  things  are  great 
to  little  men. 

Reyn.    I  have  heard  you  say.  Dr.  Johnson — 

Johns.  Sir,  you  never  heard  me  say  that  David  Garrick  was 
a  great  man  ;  you  may  have  heard  me  say  that  Garrick  was  a 
good  repeater  —  of  other  men's  words  —  words  put  into  his 
mouth  by  other  men  :  this  makes  but  a  faint  approach  towards 
being  a  great  man. 

Reyn.  But  take  Garrick  upon  the  whole,  now,  in  regard  to 
conversation — 

Johns.  Well,  sir,  in  regard  to  conversation,  I  never  discovered 
in  the  conversation  of  David  Garrick  any  intellectual  energy, 
any   wide    grasp    of   thought,    any    extensive    comprehension    of 


3i6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


mind,  or  that  he  possessed  any  of  those  powers  to  which  great 
could,  with  any  degree  of  propriety,  be  applied. 

Reyn.    But  still — 

Johns.  Hold,  sir,  I  have  not  done — there  are,  to  be  sure, 
in  the  laxity  of  colloquial  speech,  various  kinds  of  greatness  ;  a 
man  may  be  a  great  tobacconist,  a  man  may  be  a  great  painter, 
he  may  be  likewise  a  great  mimic  :  now  you  may  be  the  one, 
and  Garrick  the  other,  and  yet  neither  of  you  be  great  men. 

Rcyn.   But,  Dr.  Johnson- — 

Johns.  Hold,  sir,  I  have  often  lamented  how  dangerous  it  is 
to  investigate  and  to  discriminate  character,  to  men  who  have 
no  discriminative  powers. 

Reyn.  But  Garrick  as  a  companion,  I  heard  you  say — no 
longer  ago  than  last  Wednesday,  at  Mr.  Thrale's  table — 

Johns.  You  tease  me,  sir.  Whatever  you  may  have  heard 
me  say,  no  longer  ago  than  last  Wednesday,  at  Mr.  Thrale's 
table,  I  tell  you  I  do  not  say  so  now  :  besides,  as  I  said  before, 
you  may  not  have  understood  me,  you  misapprehended  me,  you 
may  not  have  heard  me. 

Rcyn.    1  am  very  sure  I  heard  you. 

Johns.  Besides,  besides,  sir,  besides, — do  you  not  know, — 
are  you  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know,  that  it  is  the  highest  degree 
of  rudeness  to  quote  a  man  against  himself  ? 

Reyn.  But  if  you  differ  from  yourself,  and  give  one  opinion 
to-day — 

Johns.  Have  done,  sir :  the  company  you  see  are  tired,  as 
well  as  myself. 

(From   Dialogues    in  Iniitaiion   oj  Dr.  Johnson^s 
Conversation. ) 


ADAM    SMITH 


[Born  at  Kirkcaldy,  N.  B.,  1723,  educated  at  Glasgow  University  (under 
Hutcheson)  1737-40,  and  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  1740-47,  he  gave  public 
lectures  in  Edinburgh  on  Rhetoric  and  Criticism,  1748-49, — lectures  which 
bore  fruit  in  the  writings  of  Karnes,  Campbell,  and  Blair.  In  1751  he  became 
Professor  of  Logic,  in  1752  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  in  Glasgow 
University.  His  first  publications  were  two  articles  in  the  short-lived  Edin- 
burgh Review  of  1755,  but  he  made  his  reputation  by  his  Thecny  of  Moral 
Sentiments,  1759.  In  1763  Charles  Townshend  persuaded  him  to  resign  his 
chair,  and  go  as  travelling  tutor  into  France  and  Switzerland  with  the  young 
Duke  of  Buccleuch,  1763-66.  He  had  thus  greater  leisure  and  opportunities 
to  complete  his  crowning  achievement,  the  Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and 
Causes  of  the  Wealth  of  Nations,  1776.  In  1778  he  was  made  a  Commis- 
sioner of  Customs  for  Scotland,  holding  office  till  his  death,  at  Edinburgh, 
1790.] 

"  If  I  have  thoughts  and  can't  express  them, 
Gibbon  shall  teach  me  how  to  dress  them 

In  terms  select  and  terse  ; 
Jones  teach  me  modesty  and  Greek, 
Smith  how  to  think,  Burke  how  to  speak, 
And  Beauclerk  to  converse." 

These  well-known  verses  of  Dr.  Barnard  (in  reply  to  Dr.  John- 
son's taunt,  "  There  is  great  room  for  improvement  in  you,  and 
you  should  set  about  it ")  give  the  impression  that  Adam  Smith  is 
a  philosopher  and  a  critic  rather  than  an  artist.  Yet  in  the  early 
part  of  his  life  he  owed  much  of  his  fame  to  the  "  fine  writing  "  of 
his  Moral  Sentiments  and  lectures  on  art.  His  two  critical  papers 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review  (on  Johnson's  Dictionary  and  on  the  State 
of  Learning  in  Europe)  showed  his  learning'  and  ingenuity  more 
than  his  skill  in  rounding  a  period  or  unravelling  a  complicated 
subject,  though  he  has  evidently  taken  pains  to  perfect  his  two 
or  three  pages  of  translations  from  Rousseau  in  the  latter  paper. 
His   literary  masterpiece   is  the  Moral  Sentiments.      It   has  far 


3i8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


more  colour,  polish,  and  elaboration,  and  is  really  more  logical  in 
arrangement,  than  the  Wealth  of  Nations.  A  comparatively  new 
writer  in  1759,  he  could  not  afford  to  dispense  with  the  arts  of 
language  ;  and,  like  his  friend  David  Hume,  he  had  no  desire  to 
address  a  narrow  circle  of  merely  academical  readers.  In  1776 
he  could  write  at  his  ease.  The  nature  of  his  subject  demanded 
clearness  more  than  elegance  ;  and  the  Wealth  of  Natiojts  is 
always  clear,  often  homely,  even  at  times  ungrammatical.  Long 
sentences  occur  rarely  (when  we  pass  the  exordium^  ch.  i.  Bk. 
I.)  The  author  falls  into  the  speech  of  daily  life,  and  the  idioms 
of  business,  such  as  "the  higgling  of  the  market,"  "the  work- 
man's hand  does  not  go  to  it,"  "  the  goods  come  cheaper  to 
market,"  "  the  pedlar  principle  of  turning  a  penny  wherever  a 
penny  was  to  be  got."  He  will  not  keep  up  his  dignity  at  the 
cost  of  the  smallest  obscurity  ;  and,  like  Socrates,  he  takes  his 
illustrations  rather  from  the  courtyard  than  the  court.  He  revels 
in  facts  and  figures,  but  delights  still  more  in  general  and  "  con- 
necting principles,"  and  usually  begins  a  chapter  by  stating  a 
general  proposition,  which  he  proceeds  to  estalDlish  by  adducing 
a  long  series  of  instances.  His  examples  are  almost  always  from 
actual  life  and  history  ;  he  is  fanciful  only  in  his  similes,  as  when 
he  compares  a  bank  that  lived  by  drawing  and  redrawing  to  a 
pond  that  had  an  exit  but  no  entrance,  and  likens  the  invention 
of  paper  money  to  a  "  waggon-way  through  the  air."  He  is  a 
hard  hitter,  and  a  good  hater,  though  his  heaviest  strokes  are 
levelled  at  bad  laws  and  false  doctrines,  and  his  hatred  is  usually 
kept  for  classes,  not  individuals.  Here  are  some  examples : 
"  That  insidious  and  crafty  animal,  vulgarly  called  a  statesman  or 
politician  ;  "  "  The  sneaking  arts  of  underling  tradesmen  are  thus 
erected  into  political  maxims  for  the  conduct  of  a  great  empire  ;  " 
"  That  it  was  the  spirit  of  monopoly  which  originally  both  invented 
and  propagated  this  doctrine  cannot  be  doubted  ;  and  they  who 
first  taught  it  were  by  no  means  such  fools  as  they  who  believed 
it ; "  "  It  is  a  very  singular  government  in  which  every  member 
of  the  administration  wishes  to  get  out  of  the  country,  and  con- 
sequently to  have  done  with  the  Government,  as  soon  as  he  can, 
and  to  whose  interest,  the  day  after  he  has  left  it  and  carried  his 
whole  fortune  with  him,  it  is  perfectly  indifferent  though  the  whole 
country  was  swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake." 

When  he  came  near  to  personal  bitterness  in  the  case  of  Roche- 
foucauld, he  found  reason  to  repent  (what  is  said  of  that  author  in 


ADAM  SMITH  319 


the  Mo7-al  Sentiments  in  1759  is  not  said  of  him  there  in  1790)  ; 
and  towards  "  the  profligate  Mandeville "  {Edinburgh  Rezneu') 
he  may  perhaps  have  softened  a  httle.  His  caustic  description 
of  an  Enghsh  youth  on  the  Continent,  sent  there  to  spare  his 
father  the  pain  of  seeing  him  going  to  ruin  before  his  eyes, 
cannot,  without  shir  on  our  author's  gratitude,  be  supposed  to 
apply  to  a  particular  case.  He  is  rarely  ironical,  and  never  with 
the  concealed  satire  of  Hume,  or  the  transparent  innuendo  of 
Gibbon. 

His  general  judgments  are  formed  cautiously  from  the  facts, 
and  expressed,  where  there  is  room  for  doubt,  with  a  liberal  use 
of  qualifying  phrases,  "generally,"  "perhaps,"  "as  it  were,"  "it 
is  said,"  and  "  as  nearly  as  we  can  judge."  Where  he  quotes 
authorities  at  all,  he  usually  gives  them  in  the  text.  In  the 
Moral  Scntimefits  there  are  (speaking  broadly)  no  footnotes,  and 
in  the  Wealth  of  Nations  very  few. 

Dugald  Stewart  states  that  Hume  wrote  out  his  books  with  his 
own  hand,  Adam  Smith  dictated  his  to  a  secretary.  This 
may  partly  explain  the  difference  in  style  between  the  two 
authors.  Several  long  letters  of  Adam  Smith  in  his  own 
handwriting  are  still  preserved,  and  they  have  all  the  character- 
istics of  the  printed  books ;  the  habit  of  dictating  and  lecturing 
could  not  be  shaken  off. 

The  extracts  given  here  are  selected  as  examples  of  our 
author's  work  in  four  departments  of  study — Literature,  the  His- 
tory of  Science,  Moral  Philosophy,  and  Political  Economy.  If 
a  philosopher's  views  could  be  summed  up  in  short  phrases,  it 
might  be  said  that  he  found  the  leading  idea  of  Art  to  be  imita- 
tion, of  Ethics,  sympathy,  of  Political  Economy,  commercial 
ambition  and  industrial  liberty,  while  the  spring  of  all  science 
and  philosophy  was  (to  him)  the  desire  of  finding  order  and  "  con- 
necting principles  "  in  a  chaos  of  particular  data. 

His  influence  on  literature  and  criticism  was  mainly  personal  ; 
his  work  in  philosophy  is  not  comparable  to  Hume's  in  historical 
importance  ;  but  his  Wealth  of  Nations  was  the  starting-point  of 
systematic  economical  study  in  this  country.  Adam  Smith  is  to 
English  economics  what  Kant  is  to  German  metaphysics.  Finally, 
Adam  Smith  is  one  of  the  few  authors  whose  writings  have 
guided  the  action  of  statesmen  and  moulded  the  policy  of 
nations. 

J.    BONAR. 


HUMOUR  1 

Humour,  from  the  Latin  humor,  in  its  original  signification, 
stands  for  moisture  in  general  ;  from  whence  it  has  been  restrained 
to  signify  the  moisture  of  animal  bodies,  or  those  fluids  which 
circulate  thro'  them. 

It  is  distinguished  from  moisture  in  general  in  this,  that 
humours  properly  express  the  fluids  of  the  body  when,  in  a 
vitiated  state,  it  would  not  be  improper  to  say  that  the  fluids  of 
such  a  person's  body  were  full  of  humours. 

The  only  fluids  of  the  body  which,  in  their  natural  and  health- 
ful state,  are  called  humours,  are  those  in  the  eye  ;  we  talk  of  the 
aqueous  humour,  the  crystalline  humour,  without  meaning'  any- 
thing that  is  morbid  or  diseased  :  yet,  when  we  say  in  general, 
that  such  a  person  has  got  a  humour  in  his  eye,  we  understand 
it  in  the  usual  sense  of  a  vitiated  fluid. 

As  the  temper  of  the  mind  is  supposed  to  depend  upon  the 
state  of  the  fluids  in  the  body,  humour  has  come  to  be  synonymous 
with  temper  and  disposition. 

A  person's  humour,  however,  is  different  from  his  disposition 
in  this,  that  humour  seems  to  be  the  disease  of  a  disposition  ;  it 
would  be  proper  to  say  that  persons  of  a  serious  temper  or  dis- 
position of  mind,  were  subject  to  melancholy  humours  ;  that  those 
of  a  delicate  and  tender  disposition,  were  subject  to  peevish 
humours. 

Humour  may   be   agreeable,   or   disagreeable ;    but    it  is  still 

^  From  the  Review  of  Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary,  Edi7tburi;h  Rcvietn,  1755, 
Jan.  to  July,  Append.  Art.  III.  pp.  71-2.  The  reviewer  had  found  fault  with 
Johnson's  plan  ;  Johnson  should  have  classified  the  senses  of  a  word  instead 
of  simply  enumerating  them,  and  he  ought  to  have  ranged  them  under  the 
principal  sense,  and  taken  more  care  to  distinguish  synonyms.  To  show 
what  he  wants,  the  reviewer  takes  the  words  "  But"  and  "  Humour,"  giving 
first  Johnson's  article  and  then  his  own.  The  above  is  the  reviewer's  version 
of  Humour. 


ADAM  SMITH  321 


humour,  something  that  is  whimsical,  capricious,  and  not  to  be 
depended  upon  :  an  ill-natured  man  may  have  fits  of  good  humour, 
which  seem  to  come  upon  him  accidentally,  without  any  regard 
to  the  common  moral  causes  of  happiness  or  misery. 

A  fit  of  cheerfulness  constitutes  the  whole  of  good  humour  ; 
and  a  man  who  has  many  such  fits,  is  a  good-humoured  man  : 
yet  he  may  not  be  a  good-natured  ;  which  is  a  character  that 
supposes  something  more  constant,  equable,  and  uniform,  than 
what  was  requisite  to  constitute  good  humour. 

Humour  is  often  made  use  of  to  express  the  quality  of  the 
imagination  which  bears  a  considerable  resemblance  to  wit. 

Wit  expresses  something  that  is  more  designed,  concerted, 
regular,  and  artificial  ;  humour,  something  that  is  more  wild, 
loose,  extravagant,  and  fantastical  ;  something  which  comes  upon 
a  man  by  fits,  which  he  can  neither  command  nor  restrain,  and 
which  is  not  perfectly  consistent  with  true  politeness.  Humour, 
it  has  been  said,  is  often  more  diverting  than  wit  ;  yet  a  man  of 
wit  is  as  much  above  a  man  of  humour,  as  a  gentleman  is  above 
a  bufifoon  ;   a  buffoon,  however,   will   often    divert   more   than    a 


gentleman. 


THE  ASPECT  OF  NATURE  TO  THE  SAVAGE 

Mankind,  in  the  first  ages  of  society,  before  the  establishment 
of  law,  order,  and  security,  have  little  curiosity  to  find  out  those 
hidden  chains  of  events  which  bind  together  the  seemingly  dis- 
jointed appearances  of  nature.  A  savage,  whose  subsistence  is 
precarious,  whose  life  is  every  day  exposed  to  the  rudest  dangers, 
has  no  inclination  to  amuse  himself  with  searching  out  what, 
when  discovered,  seems  to  serve  no  other  purpose  than  to  render 
the  theatre  of  nature  a  more  connected  spectacle  to  his  imagina- 
tion. Many  of  these  smaller  incoherences,  which  in  the  course 
of  things  perplex  philosophers,  entirely  escape  his  attention. 
Those  more  magnificent  irregularities,  whose  grandeur  he  cannot 
overlook,  call  forth  his  amazement.  Comets,  eclipses,  thunder, 
lightning-,  and  other  meteors,  by  their  greatness,  naturally  overawe 
him,  and  he  views  theni  with  a  reverence  that  approaches  to  fear. 
His  inexperience  and  uncertainty  with  regard  to  everything  about 
them,  how  they  came,  how  they  are  to  go,  what  went  before, 
VOL.  IV  V 


322  ENGLISH  PROSE 


what  is  to  come  after  them,  exasperate  his  sentiment  into  terror 
and  consternation.  But  our  passions,  as  Father  Malebranche 
observes,  all  justify  themselves  ;  that  is,  suggest  to  us  opinions 
which  justify  them.  As  those  appearances  terrify  him,  therefore, 
he  is  disposed  to  believe  everything  about  them  which  can  render 
them  still  more  the  objects  of  his  terror.  That  they  proceed 
from  some  intelligent  though  invisible  causes,  of  whose  vengeance 
and  displeasure  they  are  either  the  signs  or  the  effects,  is  the 
notion  of  all  others  most  capable  of  enhancing  this  passion,  and 
is  that  therefore  which  he  is  most  apt  to  entertain.  To  this  too, 
that  cowardice  and  pusillanimity,  so  natural  to  man  in  his  un- 
civilized state,  still  more  disposes  him  :  unprotected  by  the  laws 
of  society,  exposed,  defenceless,  he  feels  his  weakness  upon  all 
occasions  ;  his  strength  and  security  upon  none. 

(From  Essay  oti  the  History  of  Astronomy.     Before  I759-) 


HOW  ART  PRODUCES   ITS  EFFECTS 

The  works  of  the  great  masters  in  Statuary  and  Painting,  it  is  to 
be  observed,  never  produce  their  effect  by  deception.  They 
never  are,  and  it  is  never  intended  that  they  should  be,  mistaken 
for  the  real  objects  which  they  represent.  Painted  Statuary  may 
sometimes  deceive  an  inattentive  eye  ;  proper  Statuary  never 
does.  The  little  pieces  of  perspective  in  Painting,  which  it  is 
intended  should  please  by  deception,  represent  always  some  very 
simple  as  well  as  insignificant  object ;  a  roll  of  paper,  for  example, 
or  the  steps  of  a  staircase  in  the  dark  corner  of  some  passage  or 
gallery.  They  are  generally  the  works  too  of  some  very  inferior 
artists.  After  being  seen  once,  and  producing  the  little  surprise 
which  it  is  meant  they  should  excite,  together  with  the  mirth 
which  commonly  accompanies  it,  they  never  please  more,  but 
appear  ever  after  insipid  and  tiresome. 

The  proper  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  those  two  imitative 
arts,  so  far  from  being  the  effect  of  deception,  is  altogether  incom- 
patible with  it.  That  pleasure  is  founded  altogether  upon  our 
wonder  at  seeing  an  object  of  one  kind  represent  so  well  an  object 
of  a  very  different  kind,  and  upon  our  admiration  of  the  art  which 
surmounts  so  happily  that  disparity  which  Nature  had  established 
between    them.       The    nobler  works    of   Statuary   and    Painting 


ADAM  SMITH  323 


appear  to  us  a  sort  of  wonderful  phenomena,  differing  in  this 
respect  from  tlie  wonderful  phenomena  of  Nature  that  they  carry, 
as  it  were,  their  own  explication  along  with  them,  and  demonstrate, 
even  to  the  eye,  the  way  and  manner  in  which  they  are  produced. 
The  eye,  even  of  an  unskilful  spectator,  immediately  discerns,  in 
some  measure,  how  it  is  that  a  certain  modification  of  figure  in 
Statuary,  and  of  brighter  and  darker  colours  in  Painting,  can 
represent,  with  so  much  truth  and  vivacity,  the  actions,  passions, 
and  behaviour  of  men,  as  well  as  a  great  variety  of  other  objects. 
The  pleasing  wonder  of  ignorance  is  accompanied  with  the  still 
more  pleasing  satisfaction  of  science.  We  wonder  and  are  amazed 
at  the  effect,  and  we  are  pleased  ourselves,  and  happy  to  find 
that  we  can  comprehend,  in  some  measure,  how  that  wonderful 
effect  is  produced. 

A  good  looking-glass  represents  the  objects  which  are  set 
before  it  with  much  more  truth  and  vivacity  than  either  Statuary 
or  Painting.  But,  though  the  science  of  optics  may  explain  to 
the  understanding,  the  looking-glass  itself  does  not  at  all  demon- 
strate to  the  eye  how  this  effect  is  brought  about.  It  may  excite 
the  wonder  of  ignorance  ;  and  in  a  clown,  who  had  never  beheld 
a  looking-glass  before,  I  have  seen  that  wonder  rise  almost  to 
rapture  and  ecstasy  ;  but  it  cannot  give  the  satisfaction  of  science. 
In  all  looking-glasses  the  effects  are  produced  by  the  same  means, 
applied  exactly  in  the  same  manner.  In  every  different  statue 
and  picture  the  effects  are  produced,  though  by  similar,  yet  not 
by  the  same  means  ;  and  those  means  too  are  applied  in  a  different 
manner  in  each.  Every  good  statue  and  picture  is  a  fresh 
wonder,  which  at  the  same  time  carries,  in  some  measure,  its  own 
explication  along  with  it. 

(From  Essay  on  the  Naiitrc  of  that  Imitation  which  takes  place 
in  what  are  called  the  Imitative  Arts.      Before  I759-) 


REMORSE 

The  violator  of  the  more  sacred  laws  of  justice  can  never  reflect 
on  the  sentiments  which  mankind  must  entertain  with  regard  to 
him,  without  feeling  all  the  agonies  of  shame  and  horror  and 
consternation.  When  his  passion  is  gratified,  and  he  begins 
coolly  to  reflect  on  his   past  conduct,  he   can  enter   into  none  of 


324  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  motives  which  influenced  it.  They  appear  now  as  detestable 
to  him  as  they  did  always  to  other  people.  By  sympathising 
with  the  hatred  and  abhorrence  which  other  men  must  entertain 
for  him,  he  becomes  in  some  measure  the  object  of  his  own  hatred 
and  abhorrence.  The  situation  of  the  person,  who  suffered  by 
his  injustice,  now  calls  upon  his  pity.  He  is  grieved  at  the 
thought  of  it,  regrets  the  unhappy  effects  of  his  own  conduct,  and 
feels  at  the  same  time  that  they  have  rendered  him  the  proper 
object  of  the  resentment  and  indignation  of  mankind,  and  of  what 
is  the  natural  consequence  of  resentment,  vengeance  and  punish- 
ment. The  thought  of  this  perpetually  haunts  him,  and  fills  him 
with  terror  and  amazement.  He  dares  no  longer  look  society  in 
the  face,  but  imagines  himself,  as  it  were,  rejected,  and  thrown 
out  from  the  affections  of  all  mankind.  He  cannot  hope  for  the 
consolation  of  sympathy  in  this  his  greatest  and  most  dreadful 
distress.  The  remembrance  of  his  crimes  has  shut  out  all  fellow- 
feeling  with  him  from  the  hearts  of  his  fellow-creatures.  The 
sentiments  which  they  entertain  with  regard  to  him  are  the  very 
thing  which  he  is  most  afraid  of  Everything  seems  hostile,  and 
he  would  be  glad  to  fly  to  some  inhospitable  desert,  where  he 
might  never  more  behold  the  face  of  a  human  creature,  nor  read 
in  the  countenance  of  mankind  the  condemnation  of  his  crimes. 
But  solitude  is  still  more  dreadful  than  society.  His  own  thoughts 
can  present  him  with  nothing  but  what  is  black,  unfortunate,  and 
disastrous,  the  melancholy  foreboding  of  incomprehensible  misery 
and  ruin.  The  horror  of  solitude  drives  him  back  into  society, 
and  he  comes  again  into  the  presence  of  mankind,  astonished  to 
appear  before  them,  loaded  with  shame  and  distracted  with  fear, 
in  order  to  supplicate  some  little  protection  from  the  countenance 
of  those  ver>'  judges  who  he  knows  have  already  all  unanimously 
condemned  him.  Such  is  the  nature  of  that  sentiment,  which  is 
properly  called  remorse  ;  of  all  the  sentiments  which  can  enter 
the  human  breast  the  most  dreadful.  It  is  made  up  of  shame 
from  the  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  past  conduct  ;  of  grief  for 
the  effects  of  it  ;  of  pity  for  those  who  suffer  by  it ;  and  of  the 
dread  and  terror  of  punishment  from  the  consciousness  of  the 
justly-provoked  resentment  of  all  rational  creatures. 

(From  Moral  Scjitinicnis.      1759.) 


ADAM  SMITH  325 


THE  SUPREME  TRIBUNAL  OF  CONDUCT 

The  all-wise  Author  of  Nature  has,  in  this  manner,  taught  man 
to  respect  the  sentiments  and  judgments  of  his  brethren  ;  to  be 
more  or  less  pleased  when  they  approve  of  his  conduct,  and  to  be 
more  or  less  hurt  when  they  disapprove  of  it.  He  has  made 
man,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  immediate  judge  of  mankind  ;  and  has, 
in  this  respect,  as  in  many  others,  created  him  after  his  own 
image,  and  appointed  him  his  vicegerent  upon  earth,  to  superin- 
tend the  behaviour  of  his  brethren.  They  are  taught  by  nature 
to  acknowledge  that  power  and  jurisdiction  which  has  thus  been 
conferred  upon  him,  to  be  more  or  less  humbled  and  mortified 
when  they  have  incurred  his  censure,  and  to  be  more  or  less 
elated  when  they  have  obtained  his  applause. 

But,  though  man  has,  in  this  manner,  been  rendered  the 
immediate  judge  of  mankind,  he  has  been  rendered  so  only  in  the 
first  instance  ;  and  an  appeal  lies  from  his  sentence  to  a  much 
higher  tribunal,  to  the  tribunal  of  their  own  consciences,  to  that 
of  the  supposed  impartial  and  well-informed  spectator,  to  that  of 
the  man  within  the  breast,  the  great  judge  and  arbiter  of  their 
conduct.   .   .   . 

[Where  there  is  conflict  between  them.]  In  such  cases,  the 
only  effectual  consolation  of  humbled  and  afflicted  man  lies  in  an 
appeal  to  a  still  higher  tribunal,  to  that  of  the  all-seeing  Judge  of 
the  world,  whose  eye  can  never  be  deceived,  and  whose  judg- 
ments can  never  be  perverted.  A  firm  confidence  in  the  unerring 
rectitude  of  this  great  tribunal  before  which  his  innocence  is  in 
due  time  to  be  declared,  and  his  virtue  to  be  finally  rewarded,  can 
alone  support  him  under  the  weakness  and  despondency  of  his 
own  mind,  under  the  perturbation  and  astonishment  of  the  man 
within  the  breast,  whom  nature  has  set  up,  as,  in  this  life,  the 
great  guardian,  not  only  of  his  innocence  but  of  his  tranquillity. 
Our  happiness  in  this  life  is  thus,  upon  many  occasions,  dependent 
upon  the  humble  hope  and  expectation  of  a  life  to  come  ;  a  hope 
and  expectation  deeply  rooted  in  human  nature  ;  which  alone  can 
support  its  lofty  ideas  of  its  own  dignity ;  can  alone  illumine  the 
dreary  prospect  of  its  continually  approaching  mortality,  and 
maintain  its  cheerfulness  under  all  the  heaviest  calamities  to 
which,  from   the    disorders    of   this    life,    it    may   sometimes   be 


326  ENGLISH  PROSE 


exposed.  That  there  is  a  world  to  come,  where  exact  justice  will 
be  done  to  every  man,  where  every  man  will  be  ranked  with  those 
who,  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  qualities,  are  really  his  equals  ; 
where  the  owner  of  those  humble  talents  and  virtues  which,  from 
being  depressed  by  fortune,  had,  in  this  life,  no  opportunity  of 
displaying  themselves ;  which  were  unknown,  not  only  to  the 
public,  but  which  he  himself  could  scarce  be  sure  that  he 
possessed,  and  for  which  even  the  man  within  the  breast  could 
scarce  venture  to  afford  him  any  distinct  and  clear  testimony  ; 
where  that  modest,  silent,  and  unknown  merit  will  be  placed  upon 
a  level  [with],  and  sometimes  above  those  who,  in  this  world,  had 
enjoyed  the  highest  reputation,  and  who,  from  the  advantage  of 
their  situation,  had  been  enabled  to  perform  the  most  splendid 
and  dazzling  actions  ;  is  a  doctrine  in  every  respect  so  venerable, 
so  comfortable  to  the  weakness,  so  flattering  to  the  grandeur  of 
human  nature,  that  the  virtuous  man  who  has  the  misfortune  to 
doubt  of  it  cannot  possibly  avoid  wishing  most  earnestly  and 
anxiously  to  believe  it.  It  could  never  have  been  exposed  to  the 
derision  of  the  scoffer,  had  not  the  distribution  of  rewards  and 
punishments,  which  some  of  its  most  zealous  assertors  have 
taught  us  was  to  be  made  in  that  world  to  come,  been  too 
frequently  in  direct  opposition  to  all  our  moral  sentiments. 

(From  Moral  Sciiiiniciits.      1790.) 


POWER  SACRIFICED  TO   SELFISHNESS 

But  what  all  the  violence  of  tlie  feudal  institutions  could  never 
have  effected,  the  silent  and  insensible  operation  of  foreign  com- 
merce and  manufactures  gradually  brought  about.  These  gradu- 
ally furnished  the  great  proprietors  with  something  for  which  they 
could  exchange  the  whole  surplus  produce  of  their  lands,  and 
which  they  could  consume  themselves  without  sharing  it  either 
with  tenants  or  retainers.  All  for  ourselves,  and  nothing  for 
other  people,  seems,  in  every  age  of  the  world,  to  have  been  the 
evil  maxim  of  the  masters  of  mankind.  As  soon,  therefore,  as 
they  could  find  a  method  of  consuming  the  whole  value  of  their 
rents  themselves,  they  had  no  disposition  to  share  them  with  any 
other  persons.      For  a  pair  of  diamond  buckles,  perhaps,  or  for 


ADAM  SMITH  327 


something  as  frivolous  and  useless,  they  exchanged  the  mainten- 
ance, or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  the  price  of  the  maintenance, 
of  a  thousand  men  for  a  year,  and  with  it  the  whole  weight  and 
authority  which  it  could  give  them.  The  buckles,  however,  were 
to  be  all  their  own,  and  no  other  human  creature  was  to  have 
any  share  of  them  ;  whereas,  in  the  more  ancient  method  of 
expense,  they  must  have  shared  with  at  least  a  thousand  people. 
With  the  judges  that  were  to  determine  the  preference,  this 
difference  was  perfectly  decisive  ;  and  thus,  for  the  gratification 
of  the  most  childish,  the  meanest,  and  the  most  sordid  of  all 
vanities,  they  gradually  bartered  their  whole  power  and  authority. 

(From  TJie  Wealth  of  Nations.     17  76.) 


PUBLIC  BENEFIT  PROMOTED  BY  INDIVIDUAL  AIMS 

Every  individual  who  employs  his  capital  in  the  support  of 
domestic  industry,  necessarily  endeavours  so  to  direct  that  industry, 
that  its  produce  may  be  of  the  greatest  possible  value. 

The  produce  of  industry  is  what  it  adds  to  the  subject  or 
materials  upon  which  it  is  employed.  In  proportion  as  the  value 
of  this  produce  is  great  or  small,  so  will  likewise  be  the  profits  of 
the  employer.  But  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  profit  that  any 
man  employs  a  capital  in  the  support  of  industry  ;  and  he  will 
always,  therefore,  endeavour  to  employ  it  in  the  support  of  that 
industry  of  which  the  produce  is  likely  to  be  of  the  greatest  value, 
or  to  exchange  for  the  greatest  quantity  either  of  money  or  of 
other  goods. 

But  the  annual  revenue  of  every  society  is  always  precisely 
equal  to  the  exchangeable  value  of  the  whole  annual  produce 
of  its  industry,  or  rather  is  precisely  the  same  thing  with  that 
exchangeable  value.  As  every  individual,  therefore,  endeavours 
as  much  as  he  can  both  to  employ  his  capital  in  the  support  of 
domestic  industry,  and  so  to  direct  that  industry  that  its  produce 
may  be  of  the  greatest  value,  every  individual  necessarily  labours 
to  render  the  annual  revenue  of  the  society  as  great  as  he  can. 
He  generally,  indeed,  neither  intends  to  promote  the  public 
interest,  nor  knows  how  much  he  is  promoting  it.  By  preferring 
the  support  of  domestic  to  that  of  foreign  industry,  he  intends 
only  his  own  security  ;  and  by  directing  that  industry  in  such  a 


328  ENGLISH  PROSE 

manner  as  its  produce  may  be  of  the  greatest  value,  he  intends 
only  his  own  gain,  and  he  is  in  this,  as  in  many  other  cases,  led 
by  an  invisible  hand  to  promote  an  end  which  was  no  part  of 
his  intention.  Nor  is  it  always  the  worse  for  the  society  that  it 
was  no  part  of  it.  By  pursuing  his  own  interest  he  frequently 
promotes  that  of  the  society  more  effectually  than  when  he  really 
intends  to  promote  it.  I  have  never  known  much  good  done  by 
those  who  affected  to  trade  for  the  public  good.  It  is  an  affecta- 
tion, indeed,  not  very  common  among  merchants,  and  very  few 
words  need  be  employed  in  dissuading  them  from  it. 

(From  the  Same.) 


THOMAS   WARTON 


[Thomas  Warton  was  the  son  of  Thomas  Warton,  Professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford,  and  was  born  in  1728.  In  1743  he  was  admitted  to  Trinity  College, 
Oxford,  of  which  college  he  was  afterwards  Fellow.  His  earliest  attempts  were 
occasional  poems,  some  on  episodes  of  Oxford  life,  others  on  romantic  themes, 
and  others  again  of  a  somewhat  ponderous  humour  ;  but  these  poetic  eftorts 
posterity  has  long  since  forgotten,  although  some  of  them  are  not  without 
a  certain  force.  He  also  contributed  three  numbers  to  Johnson's  periodical, 
the  Idler.  But  his  real  literary  achievement  was  in  the  character  of  literary 
historian  and  commentator.  His  first  effort  in  this  kind  was  his  Observations 
on  the  Faerie  Queene  of  Spenser  (1754),  which  opened  a  new  vein  of  literary 
research  ;  and  his  greatest  the  History  of  English  Poetry,  published  between 
1774  and  1781.  He  was  appointed  I'rofessor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  in  1757, 
and  held  the  Laureateship  fron^  1785  till  his  death  in  1790.  A  later  edition 
was  issued  in  1824  ;  another  in  1840.  A  more  modern  edition  was  issued  in 
1871  by  W.  C.  Hazlitt,  and  is  an  outstanding  example  of  how  a  book  ought 
tioi  to  be  edited.  ] 

Warton's  History  of  English  Poetry  was  the  first,  and,  in  spite 
of  obvious  faults,  remains,  in  some  respects,  the  greatest,  of  Enghsh 
books  of  its  class.  It  was  distinctly  typical  of  the  age,  the  chief 
characteristics  of  which  were  a  learning  comprehensive  rather 
than  exact  or  specialised,  a  boldness  of  speculation  that  was  often 
reckless,  and  a  courage  in  striking  out  lines  of  its  own,  instead  of 
repeating  the  accepted  maxims  of  any  school.  Many  of  Warton's 
theories  may  be  combated.  His  references  were  often  inexact, 
and  he  was  inaccurate  in  details.  His  plan  was  cumbrous,  and 
its  execution  was  amorphous.  His  digressions  break  the  unity  of 
the  work,  and  it  is  hard  for  his  reader  to  grasp  the  intention  and 
main  object  of  the  book.  His  industry  often  failed  and  borrowed 
something  of  the  slovenly  good  nature  and  uncouth  roughness  of 
character  which  made  him  the  butt  of  his  friends  though  it  did 
not  alienate  their  affection.  But  on  the  other  hand  his  learning  and 
his  reading  were  enorinous  :  his  memory  was  laden  with  a  vast  amount 


330  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  matter  which  he  could  apply  aptly  for  illustration  and  for  com- 
parison. We  feel  ourselves  at  all  times  under  the  guidance  of  a 
strong,  acute,  and  fearless  mind,  which  refuses  to  Ijc  bound  by  any 
conventions,  and  which  steers  its  way  boldly  through  regions 
which  were  before  unexplored.  It  is  impossible  to  claim  for  him 
any  very  subtle  or  delicate  critical  faculty,  but  as  we  read  we 
come  every  now  and  again  to  passages  of  wonderful  vigour,  which 
sound  strange  when  we  go  back  to  Warton  after  a  course  of  the 
dull  school-book  treatment  which  has  been  accorded  to  English 
literature  in  our  more  modern  handbooks.  The  minute  and  carp- 
ing scholarship  of  Ritson  was  able  to  detect  inaccuracies  ;  but  it 
is  with  a  certain  sympathy  that  we  learn  that  Warton  good- 
humouredly  dismissed  his  critic  with  the  epithet  of  a  "  black-lettered 
dog."  Later  commentators  would  have  little  difficulty  in  pointing 
out  other  flaws,  but  they  have  not  succeeded  in  reproducing 
anything  like  the  grasp  and  orignnalty  with  which  Warton  wielded 
the  vast  subject  which  he  essayed.  There  is  something  attractive 
even  in  the  lawless  vagrancy  of  his  digressions,  and  it  is  in  these 
that  some  of  his  most  pointed  and  vigorous  passages  are  to  be 
found.  A  typical  instance  of  his  digressions  is  that  upon  Dante, 
to  which  he  is  led  by  an  examination  of  Sackville's  Indiictioji  to  the 
Mirrotir  for  Magistrates.  The  digression  shows  a  knowledge  of 
Dante,  and  a  power  of  citing  apt  and  illustrative  passages,  which 
were  rare  in  his  age,  but  it  also  epitomises  the  critical  taste  and 
ideas  of  that  age.  He  dwells  with  force  and  vigour,  but  with 
what  to  the  taste  of  our  own  day  would  seem  undue  persistency, 
on  the  errors  and  extravagances  of  the  Coin/ned/a.  The  instinc- 
tive impression  which  Dante's  genius  made,  almost  unconsciously, 
upon  the  genius  of  Milton,  is  absent  ;  but  Warton  nevertheless  sees 
clearly  enough  that  even  the  extravagances  "  border  on  sub- 
limity." There  is  a  certain  raciness  in  the  introduction  of  a 
paraphrase  by  Voltaire  of  an  episode  in  the  Inferno.  He  will  not 
allow  himself  to  be  blinded  to  the  faults  by  the  sublimity.  The 
fantastic  and  lurid  colouring  of  medievalism,  the  overcrowded 
canvas,  the  heavy  pall  of  legendary  superstition,  impressed  War- 
ton's  age  more  than  the  tragic  loneliness  of  Dante's  genius,  or  his 
"  majestic  sadness  "  at  the  burden  of  human  fate.  But  in  the 
passage  with  which  the  digression  concludes  (which  is  quoted 
below)  we  have  an  expression,  in  clear  and  vigorous  language,  of 
some  points  of  contrast  which  Warton  strikes  out  upon  the  anvil 
of  his  own  mind,  and  receives  from  no  conventional  mould. 


THOMAS  IVARTON  331 


Whatever  may  be  his  inaccuracy  in  detail,  and  however  assail- 
able may  be  some  of  his  theories,  Warton  deserves  the  credit  of 
making  the  first  attempt  to  analyse  the  differences  between  the 
romantic  and  the  classical  spirit,  and  of  tracing  chronologically  their 
influence  upon  modern  literature.  If  it  was  not  his  to  solve  all 
the  questions  that  arise  about  his  subject,  he  was  at  least  the  first 
to  understand  and  set  forth  the  problems  that  had  to  be  dealt  with. 
He  undertook  a  task  too  great,  perhaps,  for  any  man,  and  left  it 
incomplete.  His  scholarship  too  was  extensive  rather  than  exact, 
and  his  account  of  the  growth  of  English  poetry  is  often  inaccurate 
as  well  as  incomplete.  But  not  the  less  indubitable  is  the 
debt  we  owe  to  him,  and  not  the  less  does  he  stand  superior  in 
power  and  grasp  to  all  those  who  have  attempted  to  follow  him  in 
the  same  inquiry.  His  later  editors  have  overwhelmed  him  with 
a  heap  of  annotations,  and  have  not  even  refrained  from  pruning 
and  correcting  his  text.  The  proper  method  would  be  to  preserve 
his  work  as  he  left  it,  to  suffer  it  to  mark  an  epoch  in  our  literary 
history,  and  to  supplement  it,  if  any  one  feels  equal  to  the  task,  by 
a  work  of  equal  vigour  and  originality,  enhanced  by  such  achieve- 
ments of  exact  scholarship  as  another  century  may  have  added. 
The  latest  editor  justifies  his  treatment  of  Warton  by  that  which 
has  been  found  expedient  in  the  case  of  Blackstone's  Conivieii- 
larics,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  a  literary  estimate  is  scarcely  to 
be  dealt  with  like  a  legal  compendium,  and  that  the  phases  of 
poetical  genius  present  no  very  close  analogy  to  the  growth  of 
English  law.  One  hardly  knows  whether  to  admire  most  the 
insolence  of  such  treatment  of  a  classic,  or  the  ineptitude  of  such 
a  defence  of  it. 

Warton's  style  has  no  very  special  characteristics,  and  he  does 
not  conform  to  any  marked  convention  in  the  structure  of  his 
sentences.  But  it  is  at  all  times  forcible,  clear,  and  free  from 
pedantry  ;  and  he  unquestionably  added  something  to  the 
resources  of  English  prose,  in  being  the  first  to  treat  literary 
questions  from  the  historical  point  of  view.  His  digressions  may 
cause  his  history  to  lag,  but  they  unquestionably  contain  much 
lively  reading. 

H.  Craik. 


FEUDALISM 

Here,  however,  chivalry  existed  in  its  rudiments.  Under  the 
feudal  establishments,  which  were  soon  afterwards  erected  in 
Europe,  it  received  new  vigour,  and  was  invested  with  the  for- 
malities of  a  regular  institution.  The  nature  and  circumstances 
of  that  peculiar  model  of  government  were  highly  favourable  to 
this  strange  spirit  of  fantastic  heroism  ;  which,  however  unmean- 
ing and  ridiculous  it  may  seem,  had  the  most  serious  and  salutary 
consequences  in  assisting  the  general  growth  of  refinement  and 
the  progression  of  civilisation,  in  forming  the  manners  of  Europe, 
in  inculcating  the  principles  of  honour,  and  in  teaching  modes  of 
decorum.  The  genius  of  the  feudal  policy  was  perfectly  martial. 
A  numerous  nobility,  fonned  into  separate  principalities,  affecting 
independence,  and  mutually  jealous  of  their  privileges  and  honours, 
necessarily  lived  in  a  state  of  hostility.  This  situation  rendered 
personal  strength  and  courage  the  most  requisite  and  essential 
accomplishments.  And  hence,  even  in  time  of  peace,  they  had 
no  conception  of  any  diversions  or  public  ceremonies  but  such 
as  were  of  the  military  kind.  Yet,  as  the  courts  of  these  petty 
princes  were  thronged  with  ladies  of  the  most  eminent  distinction 
and  c|uality,  the  ruling  passion  for  war  was  tempered  with  courtesy. 
The  prize  of  contending  champions  was  adjudged  by  the  ladies  ; 
who  did  not  think  it  inconsistent  to  be  present  or  to  preside  at 
the  bloody  spectacles  of  the  times  ;  and  who,  themselves,  seem  to 
have  contracted  an  unnatural  and  unbecoming  ferocity,  while  they 
softened  the  manners  of  those  valorous  knights  who  fought  for 
their  approbation.  The  high  notions  of  a  noble  descent,  which 
arose  from  the  condition  of  the  feudal  constitution,  and  the 
ambition  of  forming  an  alliance  with  powerful  and  opulent  families, 
cherished  this  romantic  system.  It  was  hard  to  obtain  the  fair 
feudatory  who  was  the  object  of  universal  adoration.  Not  only 
the  splendour  of  birth,  but  the  magnificent  castle  surrounded  with 


THOMAS  WAR  TON  333 


embattled  walls,  guarded  with  massy  towers,  and  crowned  with 
lofty  pinnacles,  served  to  inflame  the  imagination,  and  to  create 
an  attachment  to  some  illustrious  heiress,  whose  point  of  honour 
it  was  to  be  chaste  and  inaccessible.  And  the  difficulty  of  success 
on  these  occasions  seems  in  great  measure  to  have  given  rise  to 
that  sentimental  love  of  romance,  which  acciuiesced  in  a  distant 
respectful  admiration,  and  did  not  aspire  to  possession.  The 
want  of  an  uniform  administration  of  justice,  the  general  disorder, 
and  state  of  universal  anarchy,  which  naturally  sprung  from  the 
principles  of  feudal  policy,  presented  perpetual  opportunities  of 
checking  the  oppressions  of  arbitrary  lords,  of  delivering  captives 
injuriously  detained  in  the  baronial  castles,  of  punishing  robbers, 
of  succouring  the  distressed,  and  of  avenging  the  impotent  and 
the  unarmed,  who  were  every  moment  exposed  to  the  most 
licentious  insults  and  injuries.  The  violence  and  injustice  of  the 
times  gave  birth  to  valour  and  humanity.  These  acts  conferred 
a  lustre  and  an  importance  on  the  character  of  men  professing 
arms,  who  made  force  the  substitute  of  law.  In  the  meantime, 
the  crusades,  so  pregnant  with  enterprise,  heightened  the  habits 
of  this  warlike  fanaticism  ;  and  when  these  foreign  expeditions 
were  ended,  in  which  the  hermits  and  pilgrims  of  Palestine  had 
been  defended,  nothing  remained  to  employ  the  activity  of 
adventurers  but  the  protection  of  innocence  at  home.  Chivalry 
by  degrees  was  consecrated  by  religion,  whose  authority  tinctured 
every  passion,  and  was  engrafted  into  every  institution  of  the 
superstitious  ages  ;  and  at  length  composed  that  singular  picture 
of  manners,  in  which  the  love  of  a  god  and  of  the  ladies  were 
reconciled,  the  saint  and  the  hero  were  blended,  and  charity  and 
revenge,  zeal  and  gallantry,  devotion  and  valour,  were  united. 
(From  the  History  of  English  Poetry.) 


CHAUCER'S   HOUSE  OF  FAME 

The  hall  was  filled  with  the  writers  of  ancient  tales  and 
romances,  whose  subjects  and  names  were  too  numerous  to  be 
recounted.  In  the  meantime  crowds  from  every  nation  and  of 
every  condition  filled  the  hall,  and  each  presented  his  claim  to 
the  queen.  A  messenger  is  dispatched  to  summon  ^olus  from 
his  cave   in  Thrace ;   who   is    ordered   to   bring   his   two   clarions 


334  ENGLISH  PROSE 


called  Slander  and  Praise,  and  his  trumpeter  Triton.  The  praises 
of  each  petitioner  are  then  resounded,  according  to  the  partial  or 
capricious  appointment  of  Fame  ;  and  equal  merits  obtain  very 
different  success.  There  is  much  satire  and  humour  in  these 
requests  and  rewards,  and  in  the  disgraces  and  honours  which 
are  indiscriminately  distributed  by  the  queen,  without  discernment 
and  by  chance.  The  poet  then  enters  the  house  or  labyrinth  of 
Rumour.  It  was  built  of  sallow  twigs,  like  a  cage,  and  therefore 
admitted  every  sound.  Its  doors  were  also  more  numerous  than 
leaves  on  the  trees,  and  always  stood  open.  These  are  romantic 
exaggerations  of  Ovid's  inventions  on  the  same  subject.  It  was 
moreover  sixty  miles  in  length,  and  perpetually  turning  round. 
From  this  house,  says  the  poet,  issued  tidings  of  every  kind,  like 
fountains  and  rivers  from  the  sea.  Its  inhabitants,  who  were 
eternally  employed  in  hearing  or  telling  news,  together  with  the 
rise  of  reports,  and  the  formation  of  lies,  are  then  humorously 
described  :  the  company  is  chiefly  composed  of  sailors,  pilgrims, 
and  pardoners.  At  length  our  author  is  awakened  at  seeing  a 
venerable  personage  of  great  authority :  and  thus  the  Vision 
abruptly  concludes. 

Pope  has  imitated  this  piece,  with  his  usual  elegance  of  diction 
and  harmony  of  versification.  But  in  the  meantime,  he  has  not 
only  misrepresented  the  story,  but  marred  the  character  of  the 
poem.  He  has  endeavoured  to  correct  its  extravagances  by  new 
refinements  and  additions  of  another  cast  ;  but  he  did  not  con- 
sider, that  extravagances  are  essential  to  a  poem  of  such  a 
structure,  and  even  constitute  its  beauties.  An  attempt  to  unite 
order  and  exactness  of  imagery  with  a  subject  formed  on  principles 
so  professedly  romantic  and  anomalous,  is  like  giving  Corinthian 
pillars  to  a  Gothic  palace.  When  I  read  Pope's  elegant  imitation 
of  this  piece,  I  think  I  am  walking  among  the  modern  monuments 
unsuitably  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

(From  the  Same.) 


GOWER'S    MISTAKES 

It  is  pleasant  to  observe  the  strange  mistakes  which  Gower,  a 
man  of  great  learning,  and  the  most  general  scholar  of  his  age, 
has  committed  in  this  poem,  concerning  books  which  he  never 


THOMAS  IVARTON  335 


saw,  his  violent  anachronisms,  and  misrepresentations  of  the 
most  common  facts  and  characters.  He  mentions  the  Greek  poet 
Menander,  as  one  of  the  first  historians,  or  "  first  enditom-s  of  the 
olde  cronike,"  together  with  Esdras,  SoHnus,  Josephus,  Claudius 
Sulpicius,  Termegis,  Pandulfe,  Frigidilles,  Ephiloquorus,  and 
Pandas.  It  is  extraordinary  that  Moses  should  not  be  here 
mentioned,  in  preference  to  Esdras.  Solinus  is  ranked  so  high 
because  he  records  nothing  but  wonders ;  and  Josephus,  on 
account  of  his  subject,  had  long  been  placed  almost  on  a  level 
with  the  Bible.  He  is  seated  on  the  first  pillar  in  Chaucer's 
House  of  Fame.  His  Jewish  History,  translated  into  Latin  by 
Rufinus  in  the  fourth  century,  had  given  rise  to  many  old  poems 
and  romances ;  and  his  Maccabaics^  or  histoiy  of  the  seven 
Maccabees  martyred  with  their  father  Eleazar  under  the  persecu- 
tion of  Antiochus  Epiphanes,  a  separate  work,  translated  also  by 
Rufinus,  produced  the  Judas  Maccabee  of  Belleperche  in  the 
year  1240,  and  at  length  enrolled  the  Maccabees  among  the  most 
illustrious  heroes  of  romance.  On  this  account  too,  perhaps, 
Esdras  is  here  so  respectably  remembered.  I  suppose  Sulpicius 
is  Sulpicius  Severus,  a  petty  annalist  of  the  fifth  century. 
Termegis  is  probably  Trismegistus,  the  mystic  philoso])her, 
certainly  not  an  historian,  at  least  not  an  antient  one.  Pandulfe 
seems  to  be  Pandulph  of  Pisa,  who  wrote  lives  of  the  Popes,  and 
died  in  the  year  11 98.  Frigidilles  is  perhaps  Fregedaire,  a 
Burgundian  who  flourished  about  the  year  641,  and  wrote  a 
chronicon  from  Adam  to  his  own  times  ;  often  printed,  and 
containing  the  best  account  of  the  Franks  after  Gregory  of  Tours. 
Our  author,  who  has  partly  suffered  from  ignorant  transcribers 
and  printers,  by  Ephiloquorus  undoubtedly  intended  Eutropius. 
In  the  next  paragraph,  indeed,  he  mentions  Herodotus  ;  yet  not 
as  an  early  historian,  but  as  the  first  writer  of  a  system  of  the 
metrical  art,  "of  metre  of  ryme  and  of  cadence."  We  smile, 
when  Hector  in  Shakespeare  quotes  Aristotle  ;  but  Gower  gravely 
informs  his  reader,  that  Ulysses  was  a  clerke.,  accomplished  with 
a  knowledge  of  all  the  sciences,  a  great  rhetorician  and  magician  : 
that  he  learned  rhetoric  of  Tully,  magic  of  Zoroaster,  astronomy 
of  Ptolemy,  philosophy  of  Plato,  divination  of  the  prophet  Daniel, 
proverbial  instruction  of  Solomon,  botany  of  Macer,  and  medicine 
of  Hippocrates.  And  in  the  seventh  book  Aristotle,  or  \.\\e  p/iiio- 
sophre,  is  introduced  reciting  to  his  scholar  Alexander  the  Great 
a  disputation  between  a  Jew  and  a  pagan,   who  meet  between 


336  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Cairo  and  Babylon,  concerning  their  respective  religions  :  the  end 
of  the  story  is  to  show  the  cunning,  cruelty,  and  ingratitude  of 
the  Jew,  which  are  at  last  deservedly  punished.  But  I  believe 
Gower's  apology  must  be,  that  he  took  this  narrative  from  some 
Christian  legend,  which  was  feigned,  for  a  religious  purpose,  at 
the  expense  of  all  probability  and  propriety. 


(From  the  Same.) 


CHATTERTON'S  FORGERIES 

As  to  internal  arguments,  an  unnatural  affectation  of  ancient 
spelling  and  of  obsolete  words  not  belonging  to  the  period  assigned 
to  the  poems,  strikes  us  at  first  sight.  Of  these  old  words 
combinations  are  frequently  formed,  which  never  yet  existed  in 
the  unpolished  state  of  the  English  language  :  and  sometimes 
the  antiquated  diction  is  most  inartificially  misapplied  by  an 
improper  contexture  with  the  present  modes  of  speech.  The 
attentive  reader  will  also  discern,  that  our  poet  sometimes  forgets 
his  assumed  character,  and  does  not  always  act  his  part  with 
consistency :  for  the  chorus,  or  interlude,  of  the  damsel  who 
drowns  herself,  which  I  have  cited  at  length  from  the  Tragedy  of 
Ella,  is  much  more  intelligible,  and  free  from  uncouth  expressions, 
than  the  general  phraseology  of  these  compositions.  In  the 
Battle  of  Hastings,  said  to  be  translated  from  the  Saxon,  Stone- 
henge  is  called  a  Druidical  temple.  The  battle  of  Hastings  was 
fought  in  the  year  1066.  We  will  grant  the  Saxon  original  to 
have  been  written  soon  afterwards  ;  about  which  time,  no  other 
notion  prevailed  concerning  this  miraculous  monument,  than  the 
supposition  which  had  been  delivered  down  by  long  and  constant 
tradition,  that  it  was  erected  in  memory  of  Hengist's  massacre. 
This  was  the  established  and  uniform  opinion  of  the  Welsh  and 
Armorican  bards,  who  most  probably  received  it  from  the  Saxon 
minstrels  :  and  that  this  was  the  popular  belief  at  the  time  of  the 
battle  of  Hastings,  appears  from  the  evidence  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth,  who  wrote  his  history  not  more  than  eighty  years 
after  that  memorable  event.  And  in  this  doctrine  Robert  of 
Gloucester  and  all  the  monkish  chroniclers  agree.  That  the 
Druids  constructed  this  stupendous  pile  for  a  place  of  worship 
was  a  discovery  reserved  for  the  sagacity  of  a  wiser  age,  and  the 


THOMAS  WARTON  337 


laborious  discussion  of  modern  antiquaries.  In  the  Epistle  to 
Lydgatc,  prefixed  to  the  Tragedy,  our  poet  condemns  the  absurdity 
and  impropriety  of  the  religious  dramas,  and  recommends  some 
great  story  of  human  manners,  as  most  suitable  for  theatrical  repre- 
sentation. But  this  idea  is  the  result  of  that  taste  and  discrimina- 
tion which  could  only  belong  to  a  more  advanced  period  of  society. 

But,  above  all,  the  cast  of  thought,  the  complexion  of  the 
sentiments,  and  the  structure  of  the  composition,  evidently  prove 
these  pieces  not  ancient.  The  Ode  to  Ella,  for  instance,  has 
exactly  the  air  of  modern  poetry  ;  such,  I  mean,  as  is  written  at 
this  day,  only  disguised  with  antique  spelling  and  phraseology. 
That  Rowlie  was  an  accomplished  literary  character,  a  scholar, 
an  historian,  and  an  anticjuarian,  if  contended  for,  I  will  not 
deny.  Nor  is  it  impossible  that  he  might  write  English  poetry. 
But  that  he  is  the  writer  of  the  poems  which  I  have  here  cited, 
and  which  have  been  so  confidently  ascribed  to  him,  I  am  not 
yet  convinced. 

On  the  whole,  1  am  inclined  to  believe,  that  these  poems 
were  composed  by  the  son  of  the  schoolmaster  before  mentioned  ; 
who  inherited  the  inestimable  treasures  of  Cannynge's  chest  in 
Radcliffe  Church,  as  I  have  already  related  at  large.  This  youth, 
who  died  at  eighteen,  was  a  prodigy  of  genius  ;  and  would  have 
proved  the  first  of  English  poets,  had  he  reached  a  maturer  age. 
From  his  childhood,  he  was  fond  of  reading  and  writing  verses ; 
and  some  of  his  early  compositions,  which  he  wrote  without  any 
design  to  deceive,  have  been  judged  to  be  most  astonishing 
productions  by  the  first  critic  of  the  present  age.  From  his 
situation  and  connections,  he  became  a  skilful  practitioner  in 
various  kinds  of  handwriting.  Availing  himself  therefore  of  his 
poetical  talent,  and  his  facility  in  the  graphic  art,  to  a  miscellany 
of  obscure  and  neglected  parchments,  which  were  commodiously 
placed  in  his  own  possession,  he  was  tempted  to  add  others  of  a 
more  interesting  nature,  and  such  as  he  was  enabled  to  forge, 
under  these  circumstances,  without  fear  of  detection.  As  to  his 
knowledge  of  the  old  English  literature,  which  is  rarely  the  study 
of  a  young  poet,  a  sufficient  quantity  of  obsolete  words  and 
phrases  were  readily  attainable  from  the  glossary  to  Chaucer,  and 
to  Percy's  Ballads.  It  is  confessed  that  this  youth  wrote  the 
Executto7t  of  Sir  diaries  Baldzutnj  and  he  who  could  forge  that 
poem,  might  easily  forge  all  the  rest.  .   .   . 

Those  who  have  been  conversant  in  tlie  works  even  of  the 

VOL.  IV  z 


338  ENGLISH  PROSE 


best  of  our  old  English  poets,  well  know  that  one  of  their  leading 
characteristics  is  inequality.  In  these  writers,  splendid  descrip- 
tions, ornamental  comparisons,  poetical  images,  and  striking 
thoughts,  occur  but  rarely  ;  for  many  pages  together  they  are 
tedious,  prosaic,  and  uninteresting.  On  the  contrary,  the  poems 
before  us  are  everywhere  supported  :  they  are  throughout  poetical 
and  animated  ;  they  have  no  imbecilities  of  style  or  sentiment. 
Our  old  English  bards  abound  in  unnatural  conceptions,  strange 
imaginations,  and  even  the  most  ridiculous  absurdities  ;  but 
Rowlie's  poems  present  us  with  no  incongruous  combinations, 
no  mixture  of  manners,  institutions,  customs,  and  characters : 
they  appear  to  have  been  composed  after  ideas  of  discrimination 
had  taken  place,  and  when  even  common  writers  had  begun  to 
conceive,  on  most  subjects,  with  precision  and  propriety.  There 
are  indeed,  in  the  Battle  of  Hastings^  some  great  anachronisms  ; 
and  practices  are  mentioned  which  did  not  exist  till  afterwards  ; 
but  these  are  such  inconsistencies  as  proceeded  from  fraud  as 
well  as  ignorance  :  they  are  such  as  no  old  poet  could  have 
possibly  fallen  into,  and  which  only  betray  an  unskilful  imitation 
of  ancient  manners.  The  verses  of  Lydgate  and  his  immediate 
successors  are  often  rugged  and  unmusical ;  but  Rowlie's  poetry 
sustains  one  uniform  tone  of  harmony  ;  and  if  we  brush  away 
the  asperities  of  the  antiquated  spelling,  conveys  its  cultivated 
imagery  in  a  polished  and  agreeable  strain  of  versification. 
Chatterton  seems  to  have  thought,  that  the  distinction  of  old 
from  modern  poetry  consisted  only  in  the  use  of  old  words.  In 
counterfeiting  the  coins  of  a  rude  age,  he  did  not  forget  the 
usual  application  of  an  artificial  rust ;  but  this  disguise  was  not 
sufficient  to  conceal  the  elegance  of  the  workmanship. 

(From  the  Same.) 


MEUIyEVAL   IMITATIONS  OF  THE  CLASSICS 

It  must  be  allowed,  that  the  scenes  of  Virgil's  sixth  book  have 
many  fine  strokes  of  the  terrible  ;  but  Dante's  colouring  is  of  a 
more  gloomy  temperature.  There  is  a  sombrous  cast  in  his 
imagination  ;  and  he  has  given  new  shades  of  horror  to  the 
classical  hell.      We  may  say  of  Dante,  that 

.      .      .      Hell 
Grows  darker  at  his  frown. 


THOMAS  WARTON  339 


The  sensations  of  fear  impressed  by  the  Roman  poet  are  less 
harassing  to  the  repose  of  the  mind  ;  they  have  a  more  equable 
and  placid  effect.  The  terror  of  Virgil's  tremendous  objects  is 
diminished  by  correctness  of  composition  and  elegance  of  style. 
We  are  reconciled  to  his  Gorgons  and  Hydras,  by  the  grace  of 
expression,  and  the  charms  of  versification. 

In  the  meantime,  it  may  seem  a  matter  of  surprise,  that  the 
Italian  poets  of  the  thirteenth  century,  who  restored,  admired, 
and  studied  the  classics,  did  not  imitate  their  beauties.  But 
while  they  possessed  the  genuine  models  of  antiquity,  their  un- 
natural and  eccentric  habits  of  mind  and  manners,  their  attach- 
ments to  system,  their  scholastic  theology,  superstition,  ideal  love, 
and  above  all  their  chivalry,  had  corrupted  eveiy  true  principle 
of  life  and  literature,  and  consequently  prevented  the  progress  of 
taste  and  propriety.  They  could  not  conform  to  the  practices 
and  notions  of  their  own  age,  and  to  the  ideas  of  the  ancients,  at 
the  same  time.  They  were  dazzled  with  the  imageries  of  Virgil 
and  Homer,  which  they  could  not  always  understand  or  apply, 
or  which  they  saw  through  the  mist  of  prejudice  and  misconcep- 
tion. Their  genius  having  once  taken  a  false  direction,  when 
recalled  to  copy  a  just  pattern,  produced  only  constraint  and 
affectation,  a  distorted  and  unpleasing  resemblance.  The  early 
Italian  poets  disfigured  instead  of  adorning  their  works,  by  attempt- 
ing to  imitate  the  classics.  The  charms  which  we  so  much  admire 
in  Dante,  do  not  belong  to  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  They  are 
derived  from  another  origin,  and  must  be  traced  back  to  a  differ- 
ent stock.  Nor  is  it  at  the  same  time  less  surprising,  that  the 
later  Italian  poets,  in  more  enlightened  times,  should  have  paid 
so  respectful  a  compliment  to  Dante  as  to  acknowledge  no  other 
model,  and  with  his  excellencies  to  transcribe  and  perpetuate  all 
his  extravatrancies. 


(From  the  Same.) 


A  FLOOD   OF  CLASSICISM 

The  books  of  antiquity  being  thus  familiarised  to  the  great,  every- 
thing was  tinctured  with  ancient  history  and  mythology.  The 
heathen  gods,  although  discountenanced  by  the  Calvinists  on  a 
suspicion  of  their  tending  to  cherish  and  revive  a  spirit  of  idolatry. 


340  ENGLISH  PROSE 


came  into  general  vogue.  When  the  queen  paraded  through 
a  country-town,  ahnost  every  pageant  was  a  pantheon.  When 
she  paid  a  visit  at  the  house  of  any  of  her  nobiHty,  at  entering 
the  hall  she  was  saluted  by  the  Penates,  and  conducted  to  her 
privy-chamber  by  Mercury.  Even  the  pastry-cooks  were  expert 
mythologists.  At  dinner,  select  transformations  of  Ovid's  Meta- 
morphoses were  exhibited  in  confectionery  ;  and  the  splendid 
iceing  of  an  immense  historic  plum-cake  was  embossed  with  a 
delicious  basso-relievo  of  the  destruction  of  Troy.  In  the  after- 
noon, when  she  condescended  to  walk  in  the  garden,  the  lake  was 
covered  with  Tritons  and  Nereids  ;  the  pages  of  the  family  were 
converted  into  Wood-nymphs  who  peeped  from  every  bower  ;  and 
the  footmen  gambolled  over  the  lawns  in  the  figure  of  Satyrs. 
I  speak  it  without  designing  to  insinuate  any  unfavourable 
suspicions  ;  but  it  seems  difficult  to  say,  why  Elizabeth's  virginity 
should  have  been  made  the  theme  of  perpetual  and  excessive 
panegyric  ;  nor  does  it  immediately  appear,  that  there  is  less 
merit  or  glory  in  a  married  than  in  a  maiden  queen.  Yet,  the 
next  morning,  after  sleeping  in  a  room  hung  with  the  tapestry  of 
the  voyage  of  ^neas,  when  her  majesty  hunted  in  the  park,  she 
was  met  by  Diana,  who  pronouncing  our  royal  prude  to  be  the 
brightest  paragon  of  unspotted  chastity,  invited  her  to  groves  free 
from  the  intrusion  of  Acta;on.  The  truth  is,  she  was  so  pro- 
fusely flattered  for  this  virtue,  because  it  was  esteemed  the 
characteristical  ornament  of  the  heroines,  as  fantastic  humour  was 
the  chief  pride  of  the  chamj^ions,  of  the  old  barbarous  romance. 
It  was  in  conformity  to  the  sentiments  of  chivalry,  which  still 
remained  in  vogue,  that  she  was  celebrated  for  chastity  :  the  com- 
pliment, however,  was  paid  in  a  classical  allusion. 

Queens  must  be  ridiculous  when  they  would  appear  as  women. 
The  softer  attractions  of  sex  vanish  on  the  throne.  Elizabeth 
sought  all  occasions  of  being  extolled  for  her  beauty,  of  which 
indeed  in  the  prime  of  her  youth  she  possessed  but  a  small  share, 
whatever  may  have  been  her  pretensions  to  absolute  virginity. 
Notwithstanding  her  exaggerated  habits  of  dignity  and  cere- 
mony, and  a  certain  affectation  of  imperial  severity,  she  did  not 
perceive  this  ambition  of  being  complimented  for  beauty,  to  be  an 
idle  and  unpardonable  levity,  totally  inconsistent  with  her  high 
station  and  character.  As  she  conquered  all  nations  with  her 
arms,  it  matters  not  what  were  the  triumphs  of  her  eyes.  Of 
what  consequence    was    the   complexion  of  the    mistress    of   the 


THOMAS   WAR  TON  341 


world  ?  Not  less  vain  of  her  person  than  her  politics,  the  stately 
coquet,  the  guardian  of  the  protestant  faith,  the  terror  of  the  sea, 
the  mediatrix  of  the  factions  of  France,  and  the  scourge  of  Spain, 
was  infinitely  mortified  if  an  ambassador,  at  the  first  audience, 
did  not  tell  her  she  was  the  finest  woman  in  Europe.  No  negocia- 
tion  succeeded  unless  she  was  addressed  as  a  goddess.  Encomi- 
astic harangues  drawn  from  this  topic,  even  on  the  supposition 
of  youth  and  beauty,  were  surely  superfluous,  unsuitable,  and  un- 
worthy ;  and  were  offered  and  received  with  an  equal  impropriety. 
Yet  when  she  rode  through  the  streets  of  the  city  of  Norwich, 
Cupid,  at  the  command  of  the  Mayor  and  aldermen,  advancing 
from  a  group  of  gods  who  had  left  Olympus  to  grace  the  pro- 
cession, gave  her  a  golden  arrow,  the  most  effective  weapon  of 
his  well-furnished  quiver,  which  under  the  influence  of  such 
irresistible  charms  was  sure  to  wound  the  most  obdurate 
heart.  "A  gift,"  says  honest  Hollinshed,  "which  her  majesty, 
now  verging  on  her  fiftieth  year,  received  very  thankfullie."  In 
one  of  the  fulsome  interludes  at  court,  where  she  was  present,  the 
singing-boys  of  her  chapel  presented  the  story  of  the  three  rival 
goddesses  on  Mount  Ida,  to  which  her  majesty  was  ingeniously 
added  as  a  fourth  ;  and  Paris  was  arraigned  in  form  for  adjudg- 
ing the  golden  apple  to  Venus,  which  was  due  to  the  queen 
alone. 

This  inundation  of  classical  pedantiy  soon  infected  our  poetry. 
Our  writers,  already  trained  in  the  school  of  fancy,  were  suddenly 
dazzled  with  these  novel  imaginations,  and  the  divinities  and 
heroes  of  pagan  antiquity  decorated  every  composition.  The 
perpetual  allusions  to  ancient  fable  were  often  introduced  without 
the  least  regard  to  propriety.  Shakespeare's  Mrs.  Page,  who  is 
not  intended  in  any  degree  to  be  a  learned  or  an  affected  lady, 
laughing  at  the  cumbersome  courtship  of  her  corpulent  lover 
Falstaff,  says,  "  I  had  rather  be  a  giantess  and  lie  under  mount 
Pelion."  This  familiarity  with  the  pagan  story  was  not,  however, 
so  much  owing  to  the  prevailing  study  of  the  original  authors,  as 
to  the  numerous  English  versions  of  them  which  were  consequently 
made.  The  translations  of  the  classics,  which  now  employed  every 
pen,  gave  a  currency  and  a  celebrity  to  these  fancies,  and  had  the 
effect  of  diffusing  them  among  the  people.  No  sooner  were  they 
delivered  from  the  pale  of  the  scholastic  languages,  than  they 
acquired  a  general  notoriety.  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  translated 
by   Golding,    to  instance   no    further,    disclosed   a   new    world  of 


342  ENGLISH  PROSE 


fiction,  even  to  tlie  illiterate.  As  we  had  now  all  the  ancient  fables 
in  English,  learned  allusions,  whether  in  a  poem  or  a  pageant, 
were  no  longer  obscure  and  unintelligible  to  common  readers  and 
common  spectators.  And  here  we  are  led  to  observe,  that  at  this 
restoration  of  the  classics,  we  were  first  struck  only  with  their 
fabulous  inventions.  We  did  not  attend  to  their  regularity  of 
design  and  justness  of  sentiment.  A  rude  age,  beginning  to  read 
these  writers,  imitated  their  extravagances,  not  their  natural 
beauties.      And    these,   like  other  novelties,    were   pursued    to    a 


blamcable  excess. 


(From  the  Same.) 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 

It  may  here  be  added,  that  only  a  few  critical  treatises,  and  but 
one  Aft  of  Poetry,  were  now  written.  Sentiments  and  images  were 
not  absolutely  determined  by  the  canons  of  composition  ;  nor  was 
genius  awed  by  the  consciousness  of  a  future  and  final  arraignment 
at  the  tribunal  of  taste.  A  certain  dignity  of  inattention  to  nice- 
ties is  now  visible  in  our  writers.  Without  too  closely  consulting 
a  criterion  of  correctness  every  man  indulged  his  own  capricious- 
ness  of  invention.  The  poet's  appeal  was  chiefly  to  his  own 
voluntary  feelings,  his  own  immediate  and  peculiar  mode  of  con- 
ception. And  this  freedom  of  thought  was  often  expressed 
in  an  undisguised  frankness  of  diction  ; — a  circumstance, 
by  the  way,  that  greatly  contributed  to  give  the  flowing  modulation 
which  now  marked  the  measures  of  our  poets  and  which  soon 
degenerated  into  the  opposite  extreme  of  dissonance  and 
asperity.  Selection  and  discrimination  were  often  overlooked. 
Shakespeare  wandered  in  pursuit  of  universal  nature.  The 
glancings  of  his  eye  are  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 
heaven.  We  behold  him  breaking  the  barriers  of  imaginary 
method.  In  the  same  scene,  he  descends  from  his  meridian  of  the 
noblest  tragic  sublimity,  to  puns  and  quibbles,  to  the  meanest 
merriments  of  a  plebeian  farce.  In  the  midst  of  his  dignity,  he 
resembles  his  own  Richard  the  Second,  the  skipping  King^  who 
sometimes  discarding  the  state  of  a  monarch, 

Mingled  his  royalty  witli  carping  fools. 


THOMAS  IVARTON  343 

He  seems  not  to  have  seen  any  impropriety,  in  the  most  abrupt 
transitions,  from  dukes  to  buffoons,  from  senators  to  sailors,  from 
counsellors  to  constables,  and  from  kings  to  clowns.  Like  Virgil's 
majestic  oak, 

.   .   .    Quantum  vertice  ad  auras 
/^therias,  tantum  radice  in  Tartara  tendit. 

(From  the  Same.) 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


[Oliver  Goldsmith,  son  of  the  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  was  born  at  Pallas, 
in  County  Longford,  Ireland,  loth  November  1728.  After  receiving  tuition 
at  various  local  schools,  he  was,  in  June  1744,  admitted  a  sizar  of  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  where  he  ultimately  took  a  B.A.  degree  in  February  1749. 
Having  undergone  varied  experiences  as  a  medical  student,  traveller  on  the 
continent,  corrector  of  the  press,  apothecary,  and  school  usher,  he  became  a 
writer-of-all-work  to  Griffiths,  the  proprietor  of  the  Monthly  Review.  His 
first  literary  effort  of  any  importance  was  a  pseudonymous  version  of  the 
French  Memoirs  of  a  Protestant  condemned  to  the  Galleys  of  France  for  his 
Religion,  1758.  To  this  followed  y4n  Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe,  April  1759,  from  the  title-page  of  which,  although  he 
made  no  secret  of  its  authorship,  he  withheld  his  name.  Nor  did  he  reveal  it 
in  The  Bee  of  the  same  year,  or  in  The  Citizen  of  the  World — a  series  of 
Chinese  letters  reprinted  in  May  1762  from  Newbery's  Public  Ledger.  In 
December  1764,  however,  he  published,  under  his  own  name.  The  Traveller; 
or,  a  Prospect  of  Society,  a  poem  to  which,  in  March  1766,  succeeded  the 
famous  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Two  years  later  he  essayed  the  stage  with  the 
comedy  of  The  Good  Natur'd  Man,  produced  at  Covent  Garden  by  Colman 
in  January  1768  ;  and  two  years  later  again  (May  1770)  he  published,  with  a 
singularly  happy  dedication  to  Reynolds,  the  well-known  poem  of  The  Deserted 
Village.  In  March  1773  appeared  at  Covent  Garden  his  best  play.  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer :  or,  the  Mistakes  of  a  Night,  and  in  1774  (4th  April)  he  died  at 
his  chambers,  2  Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple,  and  was  interred  in  theburying- 
ground  of  the  Temple  Church.  His  literary  legacy,  in  addition  to  the  above, 
includes  much  meritorious  compilation  ;  besides  which,  shortly  after  his  death, 
were  issued  some  occasional  verses,  comprising  the  admirable  fragment  called 
Retaliation,  and  the  clever /v/  d'esprit  of  The  Haunch  of  Venison.'] 

There  is  one  thing  that  distinguishes  Goldsmith  from  his  con- 
temporaries ;  he  was  undoubtedly,  in  Johnson's  phrase,  a  plant 
that  flowered  late.  When,  in  1757,  he  at  last  seriously  entered 
the  lists  of  literature,  he  was  nearly  thirty  ;  and  for  his  past  pro- 
duction he  had  nothing  definite  to  show  but  an  indifferent  epigram, 
and  the  fragment  of  an  unprinted  didactic  poem  which  he  had 
sent  from  Switzerland  to  his  brother.  One  reason  for  this  reticence 
is,  perhaps,  that  he  had  adopted  letters  only  as  a  last  resource. 


346  ENGLISH  PROSE 


There  is  little  to  prove  that  he  had  ever  been  attracted  to  them 
by  ambition,  or  by  any  secret  consciousness  of  his  gifts.  On  the 
contrary,  to  be  a  clergyman,  a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  had  seemed  to 
him  far  more  desirable  ;  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  lost  all 
hope  of  success  in  these  directions,  that  he  turned  for  a  livelihood 
to  the  '•'■  a)itiqiia  mater  of  Grub  Street."  But  his  tardiness  to  take 
up  the  pen  professionally  had  this  advantage,  that  he  entered 
upon  his  calling  already  fairly  equipped.  In  his  discursive 
pilgrimage  towards  manhood,  he  had  seen  much  of  life  and  char- 
acter ;  and  in  some  obscure  way  he  had  learned  to  write — if, 
indeed,  any  learning  had  been  needful — since,  judging  from  those 
of  his  early  letters  which  have  been  preserved,  a  peculiar  and 
almost  unique  charm  must  always  have  characterised  his  style. 
But  however  this  may  be,  it  is  notable  that  when,  without  any 
appreciable  previous  experience,  he  began  to  lay  down  the  critical 
law  from  the  back-parlour  at  the  "  Dunciad,"  his  manner  and  his 
opinions  were  already  formed.  Making  reasonable  allowance  for 
seventeen  years  of  practice,  his  sentences  and  paragraphs  when,  in 
1774,  he  laid  down  his  pen,  do  not  differ  greatly  from  the  sen- 
tences and  paragraphs  of  his  first  contributions  to  Griffiths'  maga- 
zine. And  his  views  in  1757  are  the  views  which  he  held  to  the 
close  of  his  career,  and  which,  as  occasion  offered,  he  successfully 
illustrated  by  his  practice.  That  the  future  author  of  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer  should  be  the  keenest  adversary  of  the  mouthing 
Douglas  of  Home  ;  that  the  future  author  of  the  Deserted  Village 
should  deplore  the  note  of  remoteness  in  Gray's  Pituiaric  Odes ; 
and,  finally,  that  the  lucid  improviser  of  the  admirable  Letters  from 
a  Nobleman  to  /lis  Son  2ipon  the  History  of  England  should  fall 
foul  of  the  lumbering  and  pretentious  platitudes  of  worthy  Jonas 
Hanway — these  things  are  logical  enough,  but  they  show  a  con- 
sistency of  critical  opinion  not  always  to  be  found  in  English 
literature. 

The  prose  works  of  Goldsmith  fall  naturally  into  two  classes — 
those  which  he  wrote  for  bread,  and  those  which  he  wrote  for 
reputation.  The  Memoirs  of  Voltaire ;  the  History  of  Mecklett- 
burghj  the  Lives  of  Nash,  of  Parnell,  of  Bolingbroke  ;  the  His- 
tories of  Greece,  of  Rome,  of  England  ;  and  the  eight  volumes  on 
Natural  History  which  Johnson  predicted  he  would  make  as 
interesting  as  a  Persian  tale, — these  and  the  rest  were  compila- 
tions, "  honest  journey  work  in  defect  of  better,"  as  Carlyle  calls 
it — but  compilations  and  nothing  more.      They  were  the  labours 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  347 


by  which,  as  he  told  Lord  Lisburn,  he  "  made  shift  to  eat  and 
drink  and  have  good  clothes."  He  was  paid  for  them  well,  far 
better  than  for  the  work  by  which  he  now  survives  ;  and  he 
rewarded  his  employers  by  informing  all  he  touched  with  the 
grace  of  a  style  which  was  always  clear,  always  simple,  always 
easy  and  spontaneous.  Yet  the  prose  works  which  he  wrote  for 
fame  are  of  a  far  higher  order,  because,  in  addition  to  his  gifts  as 
a  writer,  he  reveals  in  them  his  own  engaging  personality  as  a 
critic,  a  humorist,  and  a  delineator  of  character.  In  the  first  of 
these  capacities  his  strength,  it  is  true,  is  least  conspicuous.  But 
his  taste — apart  from  some  queer  prejudices,  of  which  his  inability 
to  appreciate  justly  the  genius  of  Sterne  is  perhaps  the  most 
notorious — was  instinctively  good,  and  many  of  his  judgments, 
although  opposed  to  those  of  his  contemporaries,  have  been 
confirmed  by  the  Superior  Court  of  Posterity.  In  regard  to  not  a 
few  social  questions,  too,  he  was  in  advance  of  his  age.  It  is  not 
so  much,  however,  to  the  little  tour  de  force  called  A71  Enquiry 
tfito  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Lcar7iing  in  Europe,  or  to  the 
more  didactic  papers  in  The  Bee  and  The  Citizen  of  the  World 
that  one  turns  nowadays,  as  to  the  admirable  essay-comments 
upon  contemporary  quackeries  and  absurdities — upon  the  con- 
noisseurs, the  pedants,  the  fine  ladies,  the  stage  favourites, — upon 
the  humours  and  follies  of  the  Town.  Even  more  attractive  than 
these  are  the  dispersed  sketches  of  character — "  Jack  Spindle," 
and  "  My  Cousin  Hannah,"  the  "  Man  in  Black  "  and  the  pawn- 
broker's widow,  "  Beau  Tibbs  "  the  inimitable  and  his  faded  help- 
mate,— all  of  them  little  studies  in  genre  which  need  only  the 
machinery  of  a  plot  to  turn  them  into  the  personages  of  a  story. 

Such  a  story  Goldsmith  gives  us  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  the 
outcome  and  developed  expression  of  all  this  motley  "  criticism  of 
life."  If  it  be  a  test  of  taste  in  poetry  to  like  Lycidas,  it  is  surely 
a  test  of  taste  in  fiction  to  like  the  delightful  Primrose  family. 
The  Vicar  and  his  wife,  the  philosopher  Moses,  Sophia  and  Olivia, 
even  those  "  chubby  rogues  "  Bill  and  Dick,  are  all  drawn,  as  the 
old  art-voucher  puts  it,  "from  the  quick";  and  in  addition  to 
being  individual  they  have  the  merit  of  being  typical.  Their 
qualities  good  and  bad,  their  joys  and  sorrows,  their  simple  as- 
pirations and  their  venial  vanities,  can  never  be  out  of  fashion, 
for  they  are  part  of  the  homespun  wear  of  humanity  at  large. 
An  accomplished  French  critic  said  of  Tom  foncs  that  it  was  "  la 
condensation  et  Ic  resume  dc  toute  tine  existence."     The  phrase  is 


348  ENGLISH  PJiOSE 


truer  still  of  Goldsmith's  famous  novel.  Into  the  two  volumes  of 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  he  has  put  all  the  regretful  memories  of 
his  departed  youth,  all  the  hard  experiences  of  his  much-enduring 
middle  age,  all  the  accumulation  of  his  own  life-long  hunger  for 
sympathy,  and  his  inextinguishable  love  of  his  fellow-creatures. 
Whether,  if  he  had  lived,  he  could  have  repeated  his  success,  is 
doubtful  ;  and  it  is  certainly  matter  for  congratulation  that  no 
failure  in  the  same  direction  has  ever  detracted  from  the  perennial 
charm  of  his  solitary  essay  in  fiction.  One  has  but  to  turn  for  a 
moment  to  the  pages  of  the  great  writers  who  were  his  contem- 
poraries to  recognise  at  once  how  cosmopolitan  in  its  conception, 
and  how  entirely  independent  of  suggestion  from  any  reigning 
models  is  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  It  might  have  been  written  in 
any  country,  and  it  is  read  all  over  the  world. 

From  what  has  been  said  at  the  outset  it  will  have  been 
gathered  that  Goldsmith's  style  demands  no  lengthy  examination. 
Indeed  much  of  its  attraction  is  of  that  native  and  personal  kind 
which  resists  the  resolvents  of  analysis.  That  he  may  have  learnt 
something  of  phrase-building  from  the  Rambler  is  possible,  but  he 
clearly,  and  fortunately,  did  not  learn  too  much.  It  is  demonstrable 
that,  for  certain  of  the  cjualities  of  his  verse,  he  was  largely 
indebted  to  French  models  ;  and  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  conclude 
that  French  models  generally,  and  Voltaire  in  particular,  had  also 
influenced  him  in  prose.  But  when  one  has  catalogued  his 
peculiarities  and  noted  his  differences,  when  one  has  duly 
scheduled  his  gifts  of  simplicity,  ease,  gaiety,  pathos,  and  humour, 
something  still  remains  undefined  and  evasive — the  something  that 
is  Genius. 

Austin  Dobson. 


A   CITY   NIGHT-PIECE 

The  clock  has  struck  two,  the  expiring  taper  rises  and  sinks  in 
the  socket,  the  watchman  forgets  the  hour  in  sluinber,  the  laborious 
and  the  happy  are  at  rest,  and  nothing  now  wakes  but  guilt,  revelry, 
and  despair.  The  drunkard  once  more  fills  the  destroying  bowl, 
the  robber  walks  his  midnight  round,  and  the  suicide  lifts  his 
guilty  arm  against  his  own  sacred  person. 

Let  me  no  longer  waste  the  night  over  the  page  of  anticiuity, 
or  the  sallies  of  contemporary  genius,  but  pursue  the  solitary 
walk,  where  vanity,  ever  changing,  but  a  few  hours  past,  walked 
before  me  —  where  she  kept  up  the  pageant,  and  now,  like  a 
froward  child,  seems  hushed  with  her  own  importunities. 

What  a  gloom  hangs  all  around  1  The  dying  lamp  feebly 
emits  a  yellow  gleam  ;  no  sound  is  heard  but  of  the  chiming 
clock,  or  the  distant  watch-dog.  All  the  bustle  of  human  pi-ide 
is  forgotten,  and  this  hour  may  well  display  the  emptiness  of 
human  vanity. 

There  may  come  a  time  when  this  temporary  solitude  may  be 
made  continual,  and  the  city  itself,  like  its  inhabitants,  fade  away 
and  leave  a  desert  in  its  room. 

What  cities,  as  great  as  this,  have  once  triumphed  in  existence  ; 
had  their  victories  as  great  as  ours  ;  joy  as  just,  and  as  unbounded 
as  we  ;  and,  with  short-sighted  presumption,  promised  themselves 
immortality.  Posterity  can  hardly  trace  the  situation  of  some  : 
the  sorrowful  traveller  wanders  over  the  awful  ruins  of  others  ; 
and  as  he  beholds,  he  learns  wisdom,  and  feels  the  transience  of 
every  sublunary  possession. 

Here  stood  their  citadel,  but  now  grown  over  with  weeds  ; 
there  their  senate-house,  but  now  the  haunt  of  every  noxious  reptile  ; 
temples  and  theatres  stood  there,  now  only  an  undistinguished 
heap  of  ruin.  They  are  fallen,  for  lu.xury  and  avarice  first  made 
them  feeble.      The  rewards  of  the  state  were  conferred  on  amusing 


350  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  not  on  useful  members  of  society.  Thus  true  virtue  lan- 
guished, their  riches  and  opulence  invited  the  plunderer,  who, 
though  once  repulsed,  returned  again,  and  at  last  swept  the 
defendants  into  undistinguished  destruction. 

How  few  appear  in  those  streets  which  but  some  few  hours 
ago  were  crowded  ;  and  those  who  appear,  no  longer  now  wear 
their  daily  mask,  nor  attempt  to  hide  their  lewdness  or  their 
misery. 

But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets  their  couch,  and  find 
a  short  repose  from  wretchedness  at  the  doors  of  the  opulent  ? 
These  are  strangers,  wanderers,  and  orphans,  whose  circumstances 
are  too  humble  to  expect  redress,  and  their  distresses  too  great 
even  for  pity.  Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of  rags,  and 
others  emaciated  with  disease  ;  the  world  seems  to  have  disclaimed 
them  ;  society  turns  its  back  upon  their  distress,  and  has  given 
them  up  to  nakedness  and  hunger.  These  poor,  shivering 
females  have  once  seen  happier  days,  and  been  flattered  into 
beauty.  They  have  been  prostituted  to  the  gay,  luxurious  villain, 
and  are  now  turned  out  to  meet  the  severity  of  winter  in  the 
streets.  Perhaps,  now  lying  at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers,  they 
sue  to  wretches  whose  hearts  are  insensible  to  calamity,  or 
debauchees  who  may  curse,  but  will  not  relieve  them. 

Why,  why  was  I  born  a  man,  and  yet  see  the  sufferings  I 
cannot  relieve  !  Poor  houseless  creatures  !  the  world  will  give 
you  reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief.  The  slightest 
misfortunes,  the  most  imaginary  uneasiness  of  the  rich,  are 
aggravated  with  all  the  power  of  eloquence,  and  engage  our 
attention  ;  while  you  weep  unheeded,  persecuted  by  every  sub- 
ordinate species  of  tyranny,  and  finding  enmity  in  every  law. 

Why  was  this  heart  of  mine  formed  with  so  much  sensibility  ! 
or  why  was  not  my  fortune  adapted  to  its  impulse  !  Tenderness, 
without  a  capacity  for  relieving,  only  makes  the  heart  that  feels 
it,  more  wretched  than  the  object  which  sues  for  assistance. 

(From  The  Bee.) 


THE  STROLLING  PLAYER 

I  AM  fond  of  amusement,  in  whatever  company  it  is  to  be  found  ; 
and  wit,  though  dressed  in  rags,  is  ever  pleasing  to  me.      I  went 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  351 

some  days  ago  to  take  a  walk  in  St.  James's  Park,  about  the  hour 
in  which  company  leave  it  to  go  to  dinner.  There  were  but  few 
in  the  walks,  and  those  who  stayed  seemed,  by  their  looks,  rather 
more  willing  to  forget  that  they  had  an  appetite,  than  gain  one. 
1  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches,  at  the  other  end  of  which  was 
seated  a  man  in  very  shabby  clothes,  but  such  as  appeared  to 
have  been  once  fashionable  ;  in  short,  I  could  perceive  in  his 
figure  somewhat  of  the  gentleman,  but  gentility  (to  speak  like 
Milton)  shorn  of  its  beams. 

We  continued  to  groan,  to  hem,  and  to  cough,  as  usual  upon 
such  occasions  ;  and  at  last  ventured  upon  conversation.  "  I  beg 
pardon,  sir,"  cried  I,  "but  I  think  I  have  seen  you  before  ;  your 
face  is  familiar  to  me." — "Yes,  sir,"  replied  he,  "I  have  a  good 
familiar  face,  as  my  friends  tell  me.  I  am  as  well  known  in  every 
town  in  England,  as  the  dromedary  or  live  crocodile.  You  must 
understand,  sir,  that  I  have  been  these  sixteen  years  Merry  Andrew 
to  a  puppet-show :  last  Bartholomew  Fair  my  master  and  I 
cjuarrelled,  beat  each  other,  and  parted  ;  he  to  sell  his  puppets 
to  the  pincushion-makers  in  Rosemary  Lane,  and  I  to  starve  in 
St.  James's  Park." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  a  person  of  your  appearance  should 
labour  under  any  difficulties." — "O  sir,"  returned  he,  "my 
appearance  is  very  much  at  your  service  ;  but,  though  I  cannot 
boast  of  eating  much,  yet  there  are  few  that  are  merrier :  if  I  had 
twenty  thousand  a  year  I  should  be  very  merry  ;  and  thank  the 
fates  1  though  not  worth  a  groat,  I  am  very  merry  still.  If  I 
have  threepence  in  my  pocket,  I  never  refuse  to  be  my  three-half- 
pence ;  and  if  I  have  no  money,  I  never  scorn  to  be  treated  by 
any  that  are  kind  enough  to  pay  my  reckoning.  What  think  you, 
sir,  of  a  steak  and  tankard  ?  You  shall  treat  me  now  ;  and  I  will 
treat  you  again,  when  I  find  you  in  the  Park  in  love  with  eating, 
and  without  money  to  pay  for  a  dinner." 

As  I  never  refuse  a  small  expense  for  the  sake  of  a  merry  com- 
panion, we  instantly  adjourned  to  a  neighbouring  ale-house  and 
in  a  few  moments  had  a  frothing  tankard  and  a  smoking  steak 
spread  on  the  table  before  us.  It  is  impossible  to  express  how 
much  the  sight  of  such  good  cheer  improved  my  companion's 
vivacity.  "  I  like  this  dinner,  sir,"  says  he,  "for  three  reasons  : 
first,  because  I  am  naturally  fond  of  beef ;  secondly,  because  I  am 
hungry  ;  and,  thirdly  and  lastly,  because  I  get  it  for  nothing  :  no 
meat  eats  so  sweet  as  that  for  which  we  do  not  pay."      He  there- 


352  ENGLISH  PROSE 


fore  now  fell-to,  and  his  appetite  seemed  to  correspond  with  his 
inclination.  After  dinner  was  over,  he  observed  that  the  steak 
was  tough  :  "  and  yet,  sir,"  returns  he,  "  bad  as  it  was,  it  seemed  a 
rumpsteak  to  me.  O  the  delights  of  poverty  and  a  good  appetite  ! 
We  beggars  are  the  very  foundlings  of  Nature  ;  the  rich  she  treats 
like  an  arrant  step-mother  ;  they  are  pleased  with  nothing  :  cut  a 
steak  from  what  part  you  will,  and  it  is  insupportably  tough  ; 
dress  it  up  with  pickles, — even  pickles  cannot  procure  them  an 
appetite.  But  the  whole  creation  is  filled  with  good  things  for  the 
beggar.  Calvert's  butt  out-tastes  champagne  and  Sedgeley's  home- 
brewed excels  Tokay.  Joy,  joy,  my  blood  !  though  our  estates 
lie  nowhere,  we  have  fortunes  wherever  we  go.  If  an  inundation 
sweeps  away  half  the  grounds  of  Cornwall,  I  am  content,  I  have 
no  lands  there  ;  if  the  stocks  sink,  that  gives  me  no  uneasiness — 
I  am  no  Jew."  The  fellow's  vivacity,  joined  to  his  poverty,  I  own, 
raised  my  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  life  and  circumstances, 
and  I  entreated  that  he  would  indulge  my  desire.  "That  I  will, 
sir,"  said  he,  "  and  welcome  ;  only  let  us  drink  to  prevent  our 
sleeping :  let  us  have  another  tankard  while  we  are  awake — let  us 
have  another  tankard  ;  for  ah,  how  charming  a  tankard  looks  when 

(From  the  Essays^ 


THE   MAN    IN    BLACK 

Though  fond  of  many  accjuaintances,  I  desire  an  intimacy  only 
with  a  few.  The  man  in  black,  whom  1  have  often  mentioned, 
is  one  whose  friendship  I  could  wish  to  acquire,  because  he 
possesses  my  esteem.  His  manners  it  is  true,  are  tinctured  with 
some  strange  inconsistencies,  and  he  may  be  justly  termed  a 
humorist  in  a  nation  of  humorists.  Though  he  is  generous  even 
to  profusion,  he  affects  to  be  thought  a  prodigy  of  parsimony  and 
prudence  ;  though  his  conversation  be  replete  with  the  most  sordid 
and  selfish  maxims,  his  heart  is  dilated  with  the  most  unbounded 
love.  I  have  known  him  profess  himself  a  man-hater,  while  his 
cheek  was  glowing  with  compassion  ;  and,  while  his  looks  were 
softened  into  pity,  I  have  heard  him  use  the  language  of  the  most 
unbounded  ill-nature.  Some  affect  humanity  and  tenderness, 
others  boast  of  having  such  dispositions  from  nature  ;  but  he  is 
the  only  man  1   ever  knew  who  seemed  ashamed  of  his  natural 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  353 

benevolence.  He  takes  as  much  pains  to  hide  his  feeUngs  as 
any  hypocrite  would  to  conceal  his  indifference  ;  but  on  every 
unguarded  moment  the  mask  drops  off,  and  reveals  him  to  the 
most  superficial  obsei-ver. 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country,  happening  to 
discourse  upon  the  provision  that  was  made  for  the  poor  in 
England,  he  seemed  amazed  how  any  of  his  countrymen  could  be 
so  foolishly  weak  as  to  relieve  occasional  objects  of  charity,  when 
the  laws  had  made  such  ample  provision  for  their  support. 
"  In  every  parish-house,"  says  he,  "  the  poor  are  supplied  with 
food,  clothes,  fire,  and  a  bed  to  lie  on  ;  they  want  no  more,  I 
desire  no  more  myself;  yet  still  they  seem  discontented.  I  am 
surprised  at  the  inactivity  of  our  magistrates  in  not  taking  up 
such  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight  upon  the  industrious  ;  I  am 
surprised  that  the  people  are  found  to  relieve  them,  when  they 
must  be  at  the  same  time  sensible  that  it,  in  some  measure, 
encourages  idleness,  extravagance,  and  imposture.  Were  I  to 
advise  any  man  for  whom  I  had  the  least  regard,  I  would  caution 
him  by  all  means  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  their  false  pretences  ; 
let  me  assure  you,  sir,  they  are  impostors  every  one  of  them,  and 
rather  merit  a  prison  than  relief" 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain,  earnestly  to  dissuade  me 
from  an  imprudence  of  which  I  am  seldom  guilty,  when  an  old 
man,  who  still  had  about  him  the  remnants  of  tattered  finery, 
implored  our  compassion.  He  assured  us  that  he  was  no  common 
beggar,  but  forced  into  the  shameful  profession,  to  support  a  dying 
wife,  and  five  hungry  children.  Being  prepossessed  against  such 
falsehoods,  his  story  had  not  the  least  influence  upon  me  ;  but  it 
was  cjuite  otherwise  with  the  man  in  black  ;  I  could  see  it  visibly 
operate  upon  his  countenance,  and  effectually  interrupt  his 
harangue.  I  could  easily  perceive  that  his  heart  burned  to 
relieve  the  five  starving  children,  but  he  seemed  ashamed  to  dis- 
cover his  weakness  to  me.  While  he  thus  hesitated  between 
compassion  and  pride,  I  pretended  to  look  another  way,  and  he 
seized  this  opportunity  of  giving  the  poor  petitioner  a  piece  of 
silver,  bidding  him  at  the  same  time,  in  order  that  I  should  hear, 
go  work  for  his  bread,  and  not  tease  passengers  with  such 
impertinent  falsehoods  for  the  future. 

As  he  had  fancied  himself  quite  unperceived,  he  continued,  as 
we  proceeded,  to  rail  against  beggars  with  as  much  animosity  as 
before  ;  he  threw  in  some  episodes  on   his  own  amazing  prudence 

VOL.    IV  2  A 


354  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  economy,  with  his  profound  skill  in  discovering  impostors  ; 
he  explained  the  manner  in  which  he  would  deal  with  beggars 
were  he  a  magistrate,  hinted  at  enlarging  some  of  the  prisons  for 
their  reception,  and  told  two  stories  of  ladies  that  were  robbed  by- 
beggar  men.  He  was  beginning  a  third  to  the  same  purpose 
when  a  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  once  more  crossed  our  walks, 
desiring  our  pity,  and  blessing  our  limbs.  I  was  for  going  on  with- 
out taking  any  notice,  but  my  friend  looking  wishfully  upon  the 
poor  petitioner,  bid  me  stop,  and  he  would  shew  me  with  how 
much  ease  he  could  at  any  time  detect  an  impostor.  He  now 
therefore  assumed  a  look  of  importance,  and  in  an  angry  tone 
began  to  examine  the  sailor,  demanding  in  what  engagement  he 
was  thus  disabled  and  rendered  unfit  for  service.  The  sailor 
replied,  in  a  tone  as  angrily  as  he,  that  he  had  been  an  officer  on 
board  a  private  ship  of  war,  and  that  he  had  lost  his  leg  abroad, 
in  defence  of  those  who  did  nothing  at  home.  At  this  reply,  all 
my  friend's  importance  vanished  in  a  moment ;  he  had  not  a 
single  question  more  to  ask  ;  he  now  only  studied  what  method 
he  should  take  to  relieve  him  unobserved.  He  had,  however,  no 
easy  part  to  act,  as  he  was  obliged  to  preserve  the  appearance  of 
ill-nature  before  me,  and  yet  relieve  himself  by  relieving  the  sailor. 
Casting,  therefore,  a  furious  look  upon  some  bundles  of  chips 
which  the  fellow  carried  in  a  string  at  his  back,  my  friend 
demanded  how  he  sold  his  matches  ;  but,  not  waiting  for  a  reply, 
desired  in  a  surly  tone  to  have  a  shilling's  worth.  The  sailor 
seemed  at  first  surprised  at  his  demand,  but  soon  recollected  him- 
self, and  presenting  his  whole  bundle,  "  Here,  master,"  says  he, 
"take  all  my  cargo,  and  a  blessing  into  the  bargain." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  with  what  an  air  of  triumph  my  friend 
marched  off  with  his  new  purchase ;  he  assured  me  that  he  was 
firmly  of  opinion  that  those  fellows  must  have  stolen  their  goods 
who  could  thus  afford  to  sell  them  for  half  value.  He  informed 
me  of  several  different  uses  to  which  those  chips  might  be  applied  ; 
he  expatiated  largely  upon  the  savings  that  would  result  from 
lighting  candles  with  a  match  instead  of  thrusting  them  into  the 
fire.  He  averred  that  he  would  as  soon  have  parted  with  a  tooth 
as  his  money  to  those  vagabonds,  unless  for  some  valuable  con- 
sideration. I  cannot  tell  how  long  this  panegyric  upon  frugality 
and  matches  might  have  continued,  had  not  his  attention  been 
called  off  by  another  object  more  distressful  than  either  of  the 
former.      A   woman    in    rags,    with    one   child    in    her  arms,   and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  355 

another  on  her  back,  was  attempting  to  sing  ballads,  but  with 
such  a  mournful  voice,  that  it  was  difficult  to  determine  whether 
she  was  singing  or  crying.  A  wretch,  who  in  the  deepest  dis- 
tress still  aimed  at  good  humour  was  an  object  my  friend  was  by 
no  means  capable  of  withstanding :  his  vivacity  and  his  discourse 
were  instantly  interrupted  ;  upon  this  occasion,  his  very  dissimula- 
tion had  forsaken  him.  Even  in  my  presence  he  immediately 
applied  his  hands  to  his  pockets,  in  order  to  relieve  her  ;  but 
guess  his  confusion  when  he  found  he  had  already  given  away 
all  the  money  he  carried  about  him  to  former  objects.  The  misery 
painted  in  the  woman's  visage  was  not  half  so  strongly  expressed 
as  the  agony  in  his.  He  continued  to  search  for  some  time,  but 
to  no  purpose,  till  at  length  recollecting  himself,  with  a  face  of 
ineffable  good  nature,  as  he  had  no  money,  he  put  into  her  hands 
his  shilling's  worth  of  matches. 

(From  The  Citizen  of  the  Worldi) 


BEAU   TIBBS  AT  HOME 

Though  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of  gay  company,  and 
take  every  opportunity  of  thus  dismissing  the  mind  from  duty. 
From  this  motive  I  am  often  found  in  the  centre  of  a  crowd,  and 
wherever  pleasure  is  to  be  sold  am  always  a  purchaser.  In  those 
places,  without  being  remarked  by  any,  I  join  in  whatever  goes 
forward  ;  work  my  passions  into  a  similitude  of  frivolous  earnest- 
ness, shout  as  they  shout,  and  condemn  as  they  happen  to 
disapprove.  A  mind  thus  sunk  for  a  while  below  its  natural 
standard  is  qualified  for  stronger  flights,  as  those  first  retire  who 
would  spring  forward  with  greater  vigour. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  my  friend  and  I 
lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company  in  one  of  the  public  walks 
near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered  together  for  some  time,  either 
praising  the  beauty  of  such  as  were  handsome,  or  the  dresses  of 
such  as  had  nothing  else  to  recommend  them.  We  had  gone 
thus  deliberately  forward  for  some  time,  when  stopping  on  a 
sudden,  my  friend  caught  me  by  the  elbow  and  led  me  out  of  the 
public  walk.  I  could  perceive  by  the  quickness  of  his  pace,  and 
by  his  frequently  looking  behind,  that  he  was  attempting-  to  avoid 


356  ENGLISH  PROSE 


somebody  who  followed  :  we  now  turned  to  the  right,  then  to  the 
left  ;  as  we  went  forward,  he  still  went  faster,  but  in  vain  ;  the 
person  whom  he  attempted  to  escape  hunted  us  through  every 
doubling,  and  gained  upon  us  at  each  moment,  so  that  at  last  we 
fairly  stood  still,  resolving  to  face  what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  came  up  and  joined  us  with  all  the  familiarity  of 
an  old  acquaintance.  "  My  dear  Drybone,"  cries  he,  shaking  my 
friend's  hand,  "  where  have  you  been  hiding  this  half  a  century? 
Positively  I  had  fancied  you  were  gone  down  to  cultivate 
matrimony  and  your  estate  in  the  country."  During  the  reply  I 
had  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the  appearance  of  our  new 
companion  :  his  hat  was  pinched  up  with  peculiar  smartness  ;  his 
looks  were  pale,  thin,  and  sharp  ;  round  his  neck  he  wore  a 
broad  black  riband,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle  studded  with 
glass  ;  his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished  twist  ;  he  wore  by 
his  side  a  sword  with  a  black  hilt ;  and  his  stockings  of  silk, 
though  newly  washed,  were  grown  yellow  by  long  service.  I  was 
so  much  engaged  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dress  that  I  attended 
only  to  the  latter  part  of  my  friend's  reply,  in  which  he  compli- 
mented Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste  of  his  clothes,  and  the  bloom  in 
his  countenance.  "  Pshaw,  pshaw,  Will !  "  cried  the  figure,  "  no 
more  of  that  if  you  love  me  ;  you  know  I  hate  flattery — on  my 
soul  I  do  ;  and  yet,  to  be  sure,  an  intimacy  with  the  great  will 
improve  one's  appearance,  and  a  course  of  venison  will  fatten  ; 
and  yet,  faith,  I  despise  the  great  as  much  as  you  do  ;  but  there 
are  a  great  many  damn'd  honest  fellows  among  them,  and  we 
must  not  quarrel  with  one  half  because  the  other  wants  weeding. 
If  they  were  all  such  as  Lord  Mudler,  one  of  the  most  good- 
natured  creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a  lemon,  I  should  myself  be 
among  the  number  of  their  admirers.  I  was  yesterday  to  dine  at 
the  Duchess  of  Piccadilly's.  My  lord  was  there.  '  Ned,'  says 
he  to  me,  '  Ned,'  says  he,  '  I'll  hold  gold  to  silver  I  can  tell  you 
where  you  were  poaching  last  night.' — '  Poaching,  my  lord  ? ' 
says  I,  '  faith  you  have  missed  already  ;  for  I  stayed  at  home  and 
let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That's  my  way.  I  take  a  fine 
woman  as  some  animals  do  their  prey — stand  still,  and  swoop,  they 
fall  into  my  mouth." 

"  Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow,"  cried  my  companion,  with 
looks  of  infinite  pity  ;  "  I  hope  your  fortune  is  as  much  improved 
as  your  understanding  in  such  company." — "  Improved,"  replied 
the  other  ;  "  you  shall  know — but  let  it  go  no  further — a  great 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  357 


secret — five  hundred  a  )ear  to  l^egin  with.  My  lord's  word  of 
honour  for  it.  His  lordship  took  me  down  in  his  own  chariot 
yesterday  and  we  had  a  tcte-a-tcte  dinner  in  the  country,  where 
we  talked  of  nothing  else." — "  I  fancy  you  forget,  sir,"  cried  I, 
"  you  told  us  but  this  moment  of  your  dining  yesterday  in  town." 
— "  Did  I  say  so  "i  "  replied  he  coolly  ;  "  to  be  sure,  if  I  said  so,  it 
was  so — Dined  in  town  ;  egad,  now  I  do  remember,  I  did 
dine  in  town  ;  but  I  dined  in  the  country  too,  for  you  must  know, 
my  boys,  I  eat  two  dinners.  By  the  bye  I  am  grown  as  nice  as 
the  devil  in  my  eating.  I'll  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that : — 
We  were  a  select  party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady  Grogram's — an 
affected  piece,  but  let  it  go  no  further — a  secret.  Well,  there 
happened  to  be  no  assafoetida  in  the  sauce  to  a  turkey,  upon 
which,  says  I,  '  I'll  hold  a  thousand  guineas  and  say  done  first, 
that — ■ — '      But  dear  Drybone,  you  are  an  honest  creature,  lend  me 

half-a-crown   for  a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just  till But  hearkee, 

ask  me  for  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it  may  be  twenty  to  one 
I  forget  to  pay  you." 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned  upon  so 
extraordinary  a  character.  "  His  very  dress,"  cries  my  friend, 
"is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his  conduct.  If  you  meet  him 
this  day,  you  find  him  in  rags  ;  if  the  next,  in  embroidery.  With 
those  persons  of  distinction  of  whom  he  talks  so  familiarly  he 
has  scarce  a  coffee-house  acquaintance.  However,  both  for  the 
interests  of  society,  and  perhaps  for  his  own.  Heaven  has  made 
him  poor,  and  while  all  the  world  perceive  his  wants,  he  fancies 
them  concealed  from  every  eye.  An  agreeable  companion 
because  he  understands  flattery  ;  and  all  must  be  pleased  with 
the  first  part  of  his  conversation,  though  all  are  sure  of  its  ending 
with  a  demand  on  their  purse.  While  his  youth  countenances 
the  levity  of  his  conduct,  he  may  thus  earn  a  precarious 
subsistence  ;  but  when  age  comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is 
incompatible  with  buffoonery,  then  will  he  find  himself  forsaken 
by  all ;  condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang  upon  some  rich 
family  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to  undergo  all  the  ingenuity 
of  studied  contempt,  to  be  employed  as  a  spy  upon  the  servants, 
or  a  bugbear  to  fright  the  children  into  obedience."     Adieu. 

I  am  apt  to  fancy  I  have  contracted  a  new  acquaintance  whom 
it  will  be  no  easy  matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  Beau 
yesterday  overtook  me  again  in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and 
slapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most 


358  ENGLISH  PROSE 


perfect  familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual,  except 
that  he  had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a  dirtier  shirt,  a  pair 
of  temple  spectacles,  and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless  amusing  little  thing  I  could 
not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree  of  severity  ;  so  we  walked 
forward  on  terms  of  the  utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
discussed  all  the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular  conversation. 
The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however,  soon  began  to 
appear  ;  he  bowed  to  several  well-dressed  persons,  who,  by  their 
manner  of  returning  the  compliment,  appeared  perfect  strangers. 
At  intervals  he  drew  out  a  pocket-book,  seeming  to  take 
memorandums  before  all  the  company,  with  much  importance 
and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led  me  through  the  length  of 
the  whole  walk,  fretting  at  his  absurdities  and  fancying  myself 
laughed  at  not  less  than  him  by  every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession,  "  Blast  me," 
cries  he  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  "  I  never  saw  the  Park  so  thin 
in  my  life  before.  There's  no  company  at  all  to-day  ;  not  a 
single  face  to  be  seen."  —  "No  company!"  interrupted  I 
peevishly  ;  "  no  company  where  there  is  such  a  crowd  ?  Why, 
man,  there's  too  much.  What  are  the  thousands  that  have  been 
laughing  at  us  but  company  ?  " — "  Lord,  my  dear,"  returned  he  with 
the  utmost  good  humour,  "you  seem  immensely  chagrined  ;  but, 
blast  me,  when  the  world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and 
so  we  are  even.  My  Lord  Trip,  Bill  Squash  the  Creolian,  and  I 
sometimes  make  a  party  at  being  ridiculous,  and  so  we  say  and  do 
a  thousand  things  for  the  joke's  sake.  But  I  see  you  are  grave, 
and  if  you  are  for  a  fine  grave  sentimental  companion,  you  shall 
dine  with  me  and  my  wife  to-day  ;  I  must  insist  on't.  I'll  intro- 
duce you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifications  as  any 
in  nature  ;  she  was  bred  (but  that's  between  ourselves)  under  the 
inspection  of  the  Countess  of  All-night.  A  charming  body  of 
voice  ;  but  no  more  of  that — she  shall  give  us  a  song.  You  shall 
see  my  little  girl  too,  Carolina  Wilhelma  Amelia  Tibbs,  a  sweet 
pretty  creature  :  I  design  her  for  my  Lord  Drumstick's  eldest  son  ; 
but  that's  in  friendship,  let  it  go  no  further :  she's  but  six  years 
old,  and  yet  she  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the  guitar 
immensely  already.  I  intend  she  shall  be  as  perfect  as  possible 
in  every  accomplishment.  In  the  first  place  I'll  make  her  a 
scholar :  I'll  teach  her  Greek  myself,  and  learn  that  language 
purposely  to  instruct  her  ;  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  359 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took  me  by  the 
arm  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed  through  many  dark  alleys 
and  winding  ways  ;  for,  from  some  motives  to  me  unknown,  he 
seemed  to  have  a  particular  aversion  to  every  frequented  street ; 
at  last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal-looking  house  in 
the  outlets  of  the  town,  where  he  informed  me  he  chose  to  reside 
for  the  benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  ever  seemed  to  lie  most  hospit- 
ably open,  and  I  began  to  ascend  an  old  and  creaking  staircase, 
when,  as  he  mounted  to  show  me  the  way,  he  demanded  whether 
I  delighted  in  prospects  ;  to  which  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
"  Then,"  says  he,  "  I  shall  show  you  one  of  the  most  charming  in 
the  world  out  of  my  window  ;  we  shall  see  the  ships  sailing,  and 
the  whole  country  for  twenty  miles  round,  tip  top,  quite  high. 
My  Lord  Swamp  would  give  ten  thousand  guineas  for  such  a 
one  ;  but,  as  I  sometimes  pleasantly  tell  him,  I  always  love  to 
keep  my  prospects  at  home,  that  my  friends  may  see  me  the 
oftener." 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs  would 
permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously 
pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the  chimney  ;  and  knocking 
at  the  door  a  voice  from  within  demanded,  "Who's  there?" 
My  conductor  answered  that  it  was  him.  But  this  not  satisfying 
the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  demand  ;  to  which  he 
answered  louder  than  before  ;  and  now  the  door  was  opened  by 
an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house  with  great 
ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old  woman  asked  where  was  her 
lady  ?  "  Good  troth,"  replied  she  in  a  peculiar  dialect,  "  she's 
washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have 
taken  an  oath  against  lending  out  the  tub  any  longer." — "  My 
two  shirts  !  "  cried  he  in  a  tone  that  faltered  with  confusion  ; 
"what  does  the  idiot  mean?" — "I  ken  what  I  mean  weel 
enough,"  replied  the  other  ;   "  she's  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the 

next  door  because "      "  Fire  and  fury,  no  more  of  thy  stupid 

exclamations  ! "  cried  he  ;  "  go  and  inform  her  we  have  got 
company.  Were  that  Scotch  hag,"  continued  he,  turning  to  me, 
"  to  be  for  ever  in  my  family,  she  would  never  learn  politeness, 
nor  forget  that  absurd  poisonous  accent  of  hers,  or  testify  the 
smallest  specimen  of  breeding  or  high  life  ;  and  yet  it  is  very 
surprising  too,  as  I  had  her  from  a  Parliament  man,  a  friend  of 


360  ENGLISH  PROSE 


mine  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the  poHtest  men  in  the  world  ; 
but  that's  a  secret." 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs'  arrival,  during  which 
interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  surveying  the  chamber  and  all 
its  furniture,  which  consisted  of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought 
bottoms,  that  he  assured  me  were  his  wife's  embroidery  ;  a  square 
table  that  had  been  once  japanned  ;  a  cradle  in  one  corner,  a 
lumbering  cabinet  in  the  other  ;  a  broken  shepherdess  and  a 
mandarin  without  a  head  were  stuck  over  the  chimney  ;  and 
round  the  walls  several  paltry  unframed  pictures,  which,  he 
observed,  were  all  his  own  drawing.  "  What  do  you  think,  sir, 
of  that  head  in  the  corner,  done  in  the  manner  of  Grisoni  ?  there's 
the  true  keeping  in  it  ;  it  is  my  own  face,  and  though  there 
happens  to  be  no  likeness,  a  Countess  offered  me  a  hundred  for 
its  fellow  :  I  refused  her,  for,  hang  it,  that  would  be  mechanical, 
you  know." 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance,  at  once  a  slattern  and 
a  coquette  ;  much  emaciated,  but  still  carrying  the  remains  of 
beauty.  She  made  twenty  apologies  for  being  seen  in  such 
odious  dishabille,  but  hoped  to  be  excused  as  she  had  stayed  out 
all  night  at  the  gardens  with  the  Countess,  who  was  excessively 
fond  of  the  horns.  "  And,  indeed,  my  dear,"  added  she,  turning 
to  her  husband,  "  his  lordship  drank  your  health  in  a  bumper." — 
"  Poor  Jack  ! "  cries  he,  "  a  dear  good-natured  creature,  I  know 
he  loves  me.  But  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have  given  orders  for 
the  dinner  ;  you  need  make  no  great  preparations  neither,  there 
are  but  three   of  us  ;  something    elegant,  and  little   will    do — a 

turbot,  an  ortolan,  a "      "  Or  what  do  you  think,  my  dear," 

interrupts  the  wife,  "  of  a  nice  pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot, 
and  dressed  with  a  httle  of  my  own  sauce  ?  " — "  The  very  thing," 
replies  he  ;  "  it  will  eat  best  with  some  smart  bottled  beer  ;  but 
be  sure  to  let  us  have  the  sauce  his  Grace  was  so  fond  of.  I 
hate  your  immense  loads  of  meat  ;  that  is  country  all  over ; 
extremely  disgusting  to  those  who  are  in  the  least  acquainted 
with  high  life." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my  appetite  to 
increase  ;  the  company  of  fools  may  at  first  make  us  smile,  but  at 
last  never  fails  of  rendering'  us  melancholy.  I  therefore  pretended 
to  recollect  a  prior  engagement,  and,  after  having  shown  my 
respect  to  the  house,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  English,  by 
giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money  at  the  door,  I   took  my 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  361 

leave  ;   Mr.   Tibbs  assuring  me,  that  dinner,  if  I  stayed,  would  be 

ready  at  least  in  less  than  two  hours.  ,^  ,      r-  ^ 

(rrom  the  bame.) 


BEAU   TIBBS  AT  VAUXHALL 

The  people  of  London  are  as  fond  of  walking  as  our  friends  at 
Pekin  of  riding ;  one  of  the  principal  entertainments  of  the 
citizens  here  in  summer  is  to  repair  about  nightfall  to  a  garden 
not  far  from  town,  where  they  walk  about,  shew  their  best 
clothes  and  best  faces,  and  listen  to  a  concert  provided  for  the 
occasion. 

I  accepted  an  invitation  a  few  evenings  ago  from  my  old 
friend,  the  man  in  black,  to  be  one  of  a  party  that  was  to  sup 
there  ;  and  at  the  appointed  hour  waited  upon  him  at  his  lodgings. 
There  I  found  the  company  assembled,  and  expecting  my  arrival. 
Our  party  consisted  of  my  friend  in  superlative  finery,  his 
stockings  rolled,  a  black  velvet  waistcoat,  which  was  formerly 
new,  and  his  grey  wig  combed  down  in  imitation  of  hair  ;  a  pawn- 
broker's widow,  of  whom  by  the  bye  my  friend  was  a  professed 
admirer,  dressed  out  in  green  damask,  with  three  gold  rings  on 
every  finger ;  Mr.  Tibbs  the  second-rate  beau  I  have  formerly 
described,  together  with  his  lady,  in  flimsy  silk,  dirty  gauze 
instead  of  linen,  and  a  hat  as  big  as  an  umbrella. 

Our  first  difficulty  was  in  settling  how  we  should  set  out. 
Mrs.  Tibbs  had  a  natural  aversion  to  the  water,  and  the  widow, 
being  a  little  in  flesh,  as  warmly  protested  against  walking  ;  a 
coach  was  therefore  agreed  upon  ;  which,  being  too  small  to 
carry  five,  Mr.  Tibbs  consented  to  sit  in  his  wife's  lap. 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  we  set  forward,  being  entertained  by 
the  way  with  the  bodings  of  Mr.  Tibbs,  who  assured  us  he  did 
not  expect  to  see  a  single  creature  for  the  evening  above  the 
degree  of  a  cheesemonger  ;  that  this  was  the  last  night  of  the 
gardens,  and  that  consequently  we  should  be  pestered  with  the 
nobility  and  gentry  from  Thames  Street  and  Crooked  Lane  ; 
with  several  other  prophetic  ejaculations,  probably  inspired  by 
the  uneasiness  of  his  situation. 

The  illuminations  began  before  we  arrived,  and  I  must 
confess,    that    upon    entering    the   gardens    I    found    every   sense 


362  ENGLISH  PROSE 


overpaid  with  more  than  expected  pleasure :  the  lights  every- 
where glimmering  through  the  scarcely-moving  trees — the  full- 
bodied  concert  bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the  night — the  natural 
concert  of  the  birds,  in  the  more  retired  part  of  the  grove  vieing 
with  that  which  was  formed  by  art ;  the  company  gaily  dressed, 
looking  satisfaction,  and  the  table  spread  with  various  delicacies, 
all  conspired  to  fill  my  imagination  with  the  visionary  happiness 
of  the  Arabian  lawgiver,  and  lifted  me  into  an  ecstasy  of 
admiration.  "  Head  of  Confucius,"  cried  I  to  my  friend,  "this  is 
fine!  this  unites  rural  beauty  with  courtly  magnificence  !  If  we 
except  the  virgins  of  immortality,  that  hang  on  every  tree,  and 
may  be  plucked  at  every  desire,  I  do  not  see  how  this  falls  short 
of  Mahomet's  Paradise  !" — "As  for  virgins,"  cries  my  friend,  "it 
is  true  they  are  a  fruit  that  do  not  much  abound  in  our  gardens 
here ;  but  if  ladies,  as  plenty  as  apples  in  autumn,  and  as 
complying  as  any  Houri  of  them  all,  can  content  you,  I  fancy  we 
have  no  need  to  go  to  heaven  for  Paradise." 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when  we  were  called  to  a 
consultation  by  Mr.  Tibbs  and  the  rest  of  the  company,  to  know 
in  what  manner  we  were  to  lay  out  the  evening  to  the  greatest 
advantage.  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  for  keeping  the  genteel  walk  of  the 
garden,  where,  she  observed,  there  was  always  the  very  best 
company  ;  the  widow,  on  the  contrary,  who  came  but  once  a 
season,  was  for  securing  a  good  standing-place  to  see  the  water- 
works, which  she  assured  us  would  begin  in  less  than  an  hour  at 
the  farthest  ;  a  dispute  therefore  began,  and  as  it  was  managed 
between  two  of  very  opposite  characters,  it  threatened  to  grow 
more  bitter  at  every  reply.  Mrs.  Tibbs  wondered  how  people 
could  pretend  to  know  the  polite  world  who  had  received  all 
their  rudiments  of  breeding  behind  a  counter  ;  to  which  the  other 
replied,  that  though  some  people  sat  behind  counters,  yet  they 
could  sit  at  the  head  of  their  own  tables  too,  and  carve  three 
good  dishes  of  hot  meat  whenever  they  thought  proper,  which 
was  more  than  some  people  could  say  for  themselves,  that  hardly 
knew  a  rabbit  and  onions  from  a  green  goose  and  gooseberries. 

It  is  hard  to  say  where  this  might  have  ended,  had  not  the 
husband,  who  probably  knew  the  impetuosity  of  his  wife's 
disposition,  proposed  to  end  the  dispute  by  adjourning  to  a  box, 
and  try  if  there  was  anything  to  be  had  for  supper  that  was 
supportable.  To  this  we  all  consented  :  but  here  a  new  distress 
arose  :   Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  would  sit  in  none  but  a  genteel  box — 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  363 

a  box  where  they  might  see  and  be  seen — one,  as  they  expressed 
it,  in  the  very  focus  of  public  view  ;  but  such  a  box  was  not  easy 
to  be  obtained,  for  though  we  were  perfectly  convinced  of  our 
own  gentility,  and  the  gentility  of  our  appearance,  yet  we  found 
it  a  difficult  matter  to  persuade  the  keepers  of  the  boxes  to  be  of 
our  opinion  ;  they  chose  to  reserve  genteel  boxes  for  what  they 
judged  more  genteel  company. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  fixed,  though  somewhat  obscurely, 
and  supplied  with  the  usual  entertainment  of  the  place.  The 
widow  found  the  supper  excellent,  but  Mrs.  Tibbs  thought  every- 
thing detestable.  "  Come,  come,  my  dear,"  cries  the  husband, 
by  way  of  consolation,  "  to  be  sure  we  can't  find  such  dressing 
here  as  we  have  at  Lord  Crump's  or  Lady  Crimp's  ;  but,  for 
Vauxhall  dressing,  it  is  pretty  good  :  it  is  not  their  victuals, 
indeed,  I  find  fault  with,  but  their  wine  ;  their  wine,"  cries  he, 
drinking  off  a  glass,  "indeed  is  most  abominable." 

By  this  last  contradiction,  the  widow  was  fairly  conquered  in 
point  of  politeness.  She  perceived  now  that  she  had  no  pre- 
tensions in  the  world  to  taste  ;  her  very  senses  were  vulgar,  since 
she  had  praised  detestable  custard,  and  smacked  at  wretched 
wine ;  she  was  therefore  content  to  yield  the  victory,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  night  to  listen  and  improve.  It  is  true,  she  would 
now  and  then  forget  herself,  and  confess  she  was  pleased,  but  they 
soon  brought  her  back  again  to  miserable  refinement.  She  once 
praised  the  painting  of  the  box  in  which  we  were  sitting,  but  was 
soon  convinced  that  such  paltry  pieces  ought  rather  to  excite 
horror  than  satisfaction  ;  she  ventured  again  to  commend  one  of 
the  singers,  but  Mrs.  Tibbs  soon  let  her  know,  in  the  style  of  a 
connoisseur,  that  the  singer  in  question  had  neither  ear,  voice,  nor 
judgment. 

Mr.  Tibbs,  now,  willing  to  prove  that  his  wife's  pretensions  to 
music  were  just,  entreated  her  to  favour  the  company  with  a 
song;  but  to  this  she  gave  a  positive  denial — "for  you  know 
very  well,  my  dear,"  says  she,  "  that  I  am  not  in  voice  to-day, 
and  when  one's  voice  is  not  equal  to  one's  judgment,  what 
signifies  singing  ?  besides,  as  there  is  no  accompaniment,  it  would 
be  but  spoiling  music."  All  these  excuses,  however,  were  over- 
ruled by  the  rest  of  the  company,  who,  though  one  would  think 
they  already  had  music  enough,  joined  in  the  entreaty.  But 
particularly  the  widow,  now  willing  to  convince  the  company  of 
her  breeding,  pressed  so  warmly,  that  she  seemed  determined  to 


364  ENGLISH  PROSE 


take  no  refusal.  At  last,  then,  the  lady  comphed,  and  after 
humming  for  some  minutes,  began  with  such  a  voice,  and  such 
affectation,  as  I  could  perceive,  gave  but  little  satisfaction  to  any 
except  her  husband.  He  sat  with  rapture  in  his  eye,  and  beat 
time  with  his  hand  on  the  table. 

You  must  observe,  my  friend,  that  it  is  the  custom  of  this 
country,  when  a  lady  or  gentleman  happens  to  sing,  for  the 
company  to  sit  as  mute  and  motionless  as  statues.  Every 
feature,  every  limb,  must  seem  to  correspond  in  fixed  attention  ; 
and  while  the  song  continues,  they  are  to  remain  in  a  state  of  uni- 
versal petrifaction.  In  this  mortifying  situation  we  had  continued 
for  some  time,  listening  to  the  song,  and  looking  with  tranquillity, 
when  the  master  of  the  box  came  to  inform  us,  that  the  water- 
works were  going  to  begin.  At  this  information  I  could  instantly 
perceive  the  widow  bounce  from  her  seat,  but  correcting  herself, 
she  sat  down  again,  repressed  by  motives  of  good  -  breeding. 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  had  seen  the  waterworks  a  hundred  times, 
resolving  not  to  be  interrupted,  continued  her  song  without  any 
share  of  mercy,  nor  had  the  smallest  pity  on  our  impatience. 
The  widow's  face,  I  own,  gave  me  high  entertainment  ;  in  it  I 
could  plainly  read  the  struggle  she  felt  between  good-breeding 
and  curiosity  :  she  talked  of  the  waterworks  the  whole  evening 
before,  and  seemed  to  have  come  merely  in  order  to  see  them  ; 
but  then  she  could  not  bounce  out  in  the  very  middle  of  a  song, 
for  that  would  be  forfeiting  all  pretensions  to  high  life,  or  high- 
lived  company,  ever  after.  Mrs.  Tibbs  therefore,  kept  on 
singing,  and  we  continued  to  listen,  till  at  last,  when  the  song 
was  just  concluded,  the  waiter  came  to  inform  us  that  the  water- 
works were  over  ! 

"The  waterworks  over!"  cried  the  widow;  "the  waterworks 
over  already  !  that's  impossible  !  they  can't  be  over  so  soon  !  " — 
"  It  is  not  my  business,"  replied  the  fellow,  "  to  contradict  your 
ladyship  ;  I'll  run  again  and  see."  He  went,  and  soon  returned 
with  a  confirmation  of  the  dismal  tidings.  No  ceremony  could 
now  bind  my  friend's  disappointed  mistress  ;  she  testified  her 
displeasure  in  the  openest  manner  :  in  short,  she  now  began  to 
find  fault  in  turn,  and  at  last  insisted  upon  going  home,  just  at 
the  time  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  assured  the  company,  that  the 
polite  ho.urs  were  going  to  begin,  and  that  the  ladies  would 
instantaneously  be  entertained  with  the  horns. 

(From  the  Same.) 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  365 


THE   FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD 

I  WAS  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest  man  who  married,  and 
brought  up  a  large  family,  did  more  service  than  he  who  continued 
single,  and  only  talked  of  population.  From  this  motive,  I  had 
scarce  taken  orders  a  year,  before  I  began  to  think  seriously  of 
matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife,  as  she  did  her  wedding-gown, 
not  for  a  fine  glossy  surface,  but  such  qualities  as  would  wear 
well.  To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a  good-natured,  notable  woman  ; 
and  as  for  breeding,  there  were  few  country  ladies  who  could 
shew  more.  She  could  read  any  English  book  without  much 
spelling  ;  but  for  pickling,  presen-ing,  and  cookery,  none  could 
excel  her.  She  prided  herself  also  upon  being  an  excellent 
contriver  in  house-keeping  ;  though  I  could  never  find  that  we 
grew  richer  with  all  her  contrivances. 

However  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our  fondness 
increased  as  we  grew  old.  There  was,  in  fact,  nothing  that 
could  make  us  angry  with  the  world  or  each  other.  We  had  an 
elegant  house,  situated  in  a  fine  country,  and  a  good  neighbour- 
hood. The  year  was  spent  in  a  moral  or  rural  amusement ;  in 
visiting  our  rich  neighbours,  and  relieving  such  as  were  poor. 
We  had  no  revolutions  to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo  ;  all  our 
adventures  were  by  the  fireside  ;  and  all  our  migrations  from  the 
blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the  traveller  or 
stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry  wine,  for  which  we  had 
great  reputation  ;  and  I  profess,  with  the  veracity  of  an  historian, 
that  I  never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with  it.  Our  cousins  too, 
even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  remembered  their  affinity,  without 
any  help  from  the  herald's  office,  and  came  very  frequently  to  see 
us.  Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  honour  by  these  claims  of 
kindred  ;  as  we  had  the  blind,  the  maimed,  and  the  halt  amongst 
the  number.  However,  my  wife  always  insisted,  that,  as  they 
were  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at  the 
same  table.  So  that,  if  we  had  not  very  rich,  we  generally  had 
very  happy  friends  about  us  ;  for  this  remark  will  hold  good 
through  life,  that  the  poorer  the  guest,  the  better  pleased  he  ever 
is  with  being  treated  ;  and  as  some  men  gaze  with  admiration 
at  the  colours  of  a  tulip,  or  the  wing  of  a  butterfly,  so  I  was  by 
nature  an  admirer  of  happy  human   faces.      However,  when  any 


366  ENGLISH  PROSE 


one  of  our  relations  was  found  to  be  a  person  of  a  very  bad  character, 
a  troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired  to  get  rid  of,  upon  his 
leaving  my  house,  I  ever  took  care  to  lend  him  a  riding-coat, 
or  a  pair  of  boots,  or  sometimes  a  horse  of  small  value,  and  I 
always  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  he  never  came  back  to 
return  them.  By  this  the  house  was  cleared  of  such  as  we  did 
not  like  ;  but  never  was  the  family  of  Wakefield  known  to  turn 
the  traveller  or  the  poor  dependant  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a  state  of  much  happiness  ;  not 
but  that  we  sometimes  had  those  little  rubs  which  Providence 
sends  to  enhance  the  value  of  its  favours.  My  orchard  was  often 
robbed  by  school-boys,  and  my  wife's  custards  plundered  by  the 
cats  or  the  children.  The  Squire  would  sometimes  fall  asleep  in 
the  most  pathetic  parts  of  my  sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my 
wife's  civilities  at  church  with  a  mutilated  courtesy.  But  we 
soon  got  over  the  uneasiness  caused  by  such  accidents,  and 
usually  in  three  or  four  days,  began  to  wonder  how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as  they  were  educated 
without  softness,  so  they  were  at  once  well  formed  and  healthy ; 
my  sons  hardy  and  active,  my  daughters  beautiful  and  blooming. 
When  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  little  circle,  which  promised  to 
be  the  supports  of  my  declining  age,  I  could  not  avoid  repeating 
the  famous  story  of  Count  Abensberg,  who  in  Henry  the  Second's 
progress  through  Germany,  when  other  courtiers  came  with 
their  treasures,  brought  his  thirty- two  children,  and  presented 
them  to  his  sovereign,  as  the  most  valuable  offering  he  had  to 
bestow.  In  this  manner,  though  I  had  but  six,  I  considered 
them  as  a  very  \aluable  present  made  to  my  country,  and  con- 
sequently looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor.  Our  eldest  son  was 
named  George,  after  his  uncle,  who  left  us  ten  thousand  pounds. 
Our  second  child,  a  girl,  I  intended  to  call  after  her  aunt  Grissel  ; 
but  my  wife,  who  during  her  pregnancy,  had  been  reading 
romances,  insisted  on  her  being  called  Olivia.  In  less  than 
another  year  we  had  another  daughter,  and  now  I  was  determined 
that  Grissel  should  be  her  name  ;  but  a  rich  relation  taking  a 
fancy  to  stand  god-mother,  the  girl  was  by  her  directions  called 
Sophia  :  so  that  we  had  two  romantic  names  in  the  family  ;  but  I 
solemnly  protest  I  had  no  hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next ;  and 
after  an  interval  of  twelve  years,  we  had  two  sons  more. 

It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  my  exultation  when  I  saw  my 
little  ones  about  me  ;  but  the  vanity  and  the  satisfaction  of  my 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  367 

wife  were  even  greater  than  mine.  When  our  visitors  would  say, 
"Well,  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest  children 
in  the  whole  country." — -"Ay,  neighbour,"  she  would  answer, 
"they  are  as  heaven  made  them,  handsome  enough,  if  they  be 
good  enough  ;  for  handsome  is  that  handsome  does."  And 
then  she  would  bid  the  girls  hold  up  their  heads  ;  who  to  conceal 
nothing,  were  certainly  very  handsome.  Mere  outside  is  so  very 
trifling  a  circumstance  with  me,  that  I  should  scarce  have  remem- 
bered to  mention  it,  had  it  not  been  a  general  topic  of  conversation 
in  the  country.  Olivia,  now  about  eighteen,  had  that  luxuriancy 
of  beauty  with  which  painters  generally  draw  Hebe  ;  open,  sprightly, 
and  commanding.  Sophia's  features  were  not  so  striking  at  first, 
but  often  did  more  certain  execution  ;  for  they  were  soft,  modest, 
and  alluring.  The  one  vanquished  by  a  single  blow,  the  other 
by  efforts  successively  repeated. 

The  temper  of  a  woman  is  generally  fonned  from  the  turn  of 
her  features  ;  at  least  it  was  so  with  my  daughters.  Olivia  wished 
for  many  lovers  ;  Sophia  to  secure  one.  Olivia  was  often  affected, 
from  too  great  a  desire  to  please  ;  Sophia  even  repressed  excel- 
lence, from  her  fears  to  offend.  The  one  entertained  me  with 
her  vivacity  when  I  was  gay,  the  other  with  her  sense  when  I  was 
serious.  But  these  qualities  were  never  carried  to  excess  in  either  ; 
and  I  have  often  seen  them  exchange  characters  for  a  whole 
day  together.  A  suit  of  mourning  has  transformed  my  coquette 
into  a  prude,  and  a  new  set  of  ribbons  has  given  her  younger 
sister  more  than  natural  vivacity.  My  eldest  son  George  was 
bred  at  Oxford,  as  I  intended  him  for  one  of  the  learned  professions. 
My  second  boy,  Moses,  whom  1  designed  for  business,  received 
a  sort  of  miscellaneous  education  at  home.  But  it  is  needless  to 
attempt  describing  the  particular  characters  of  young  people  that 
had  seen  but  very  little  of  the  world.  In  short  a  family  likeness 
prevailed  through  all,  and,  properly  speaking,  they  had  but  one 
character,  that  of  being  all  equally  generous,  credulous,  simple, 

and  inofifensive.  ,„  „.     „.         r  ii-  i  r  i }\ 

(I*  rom  The  Vicar  of  Ivakcjuid.) 


FAMILY  MISFORTUNES 

The    temporal    concerns    of  our    family  were    chiefly   committed 
to  my  wife's  management  ;  as  to  the  spiritual,  I  took  them  entirely 


368  ENGLISH  PROSE 


under  my  own  direction.  The  profits  of  my  living,  which 
amounted  but  to  thirty-five  pounds  a  year,  I  made  over  to  the 
orphans  and  widows  of  the  clergy  of  our  diocese  ;  for,  having  a 
sufficient  fortune  of  my  own,  I  was  careless  of  temporalities,  and 
felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  doing  my  duty  without  reward.  I  also 
set  a  resolution  of  keeping  no  curate,  and  of  being  acquainted 
with  eveiy  man  in  the  parish,  exhorting  the  married  men  to 
temperance,  and  the  bachelors  to  matrimony  :  so  that,  in  a  few 
years,  it  was  a  common  saying,  that  there  were  three  strang-e 
wants  at  Wakefield,  a  parson  wanting  pride,  young  men  wanting 
wives,  and  ale-houses  wanting  customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favourite  topics,  and  I  wrote 
several  sermons  to  prove  its  happiness  ;  but  there  was  a  peculiar 
tenet  which  I  made  a  point  of  supporting  ;  for  I  maintained  with 
Whiston,  that  it  was  unlawful  for  a  priest  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, after  the  death  of  his  first  wife  to  take  a  second  :  or  to 
express  it  in  one  word,  I  valued  myself  upon  being  a  strict  mono- 
gamist. 

I  was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute,  on  which  so 
many  laborious  volumes  have  been  written.  I  published  some 
tracts  upon  the  subject  myself,  which,  as  they  never  sold,  I  have 
the  consolation  of  thinking  are  read  only  by  the  happy  few. 
Some  of  my  friends  called  this  my  weak  side  ;  but  alas  !  they  had 
not,  like  me,  made  it  the  subject  of  long  contemplation.  The 
more  I  reflected  upon  it,  the  more  important  it  appeared.  I  even 
went  a  step  beyond  Whiston  in  displaying  my  principles  :  as  he 
had  engraven  upon  his  wife's  tomb,  that  she  was  the  only  wife  of 
William  Whiston ;  so  I  wrote  a  similar  epitaph  for  my  wife, 
though  still  living,  in  which  I  extolled  her  prudence,  economy, 
and  obedience  till  death  ;  and  having  got  it  copied  fair,  with  an 
elegant  frame,  it  was  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  where  it 
answered  several  very  useful  purposes.  It  admonished  my  wife 
of  her  duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity  to  her  ;  it  inspired  her  with  a 
passion  for  fame,  and  constantly  put  her  in  mind  of  her  end. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps  from  hearing  marriage  so  often  recom- 
mended, that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon  leaving  college,  fixed  his 
affections  upon  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  who 
was  a  dignitary  in  the  church,  and  in  circumstances  to  give  her  a 
large  fortune ;  but  fortune  was  her  smallest  accomplishment. 
Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  was  allowed  by  all  (except  my  two  daughters) 
to  be  completely  pretty.      Her  youth,  health,  and  innocence,  were 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  369 

still  heightened  by  a  complexion  so  transparent,  and  such  a  happy 
sensibility  of  look,  as  even  age  could  not  gaze  on  with  indifiference. 
As  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  that  I  could  make  a  very  handsome  settle- 
ment on  my  son,  he  was  not  averse  to  the  match  ;  so  both  families 
lived  together  in  all  that  harmony  which  generally  precedes  an 
expected  alliance.  Being  convinced,  by  experience,  that  the  days 
of  courtship  are  the  most  happy  of  our  lives,  I  was  willing  enough 
to  lengthen  the  period  ;  and  the  various  amusements  which  the 
young  couple  every  day  shared  in  each  other's  company,  seemed 
to  increase  their  passion.  We  were  generally  awaked  in  the 
morning  by  music,  and  on  fine  days  rode  a-hunting.  The  hours 
between  breakfast  and  dinner  the  ladies  devoted  to  dress  and 
study  :  they  usually  read  a  page,  and  then  gazed  at  themselves  in 
the  glass,  which  even  philosophers  might  own  often  presented  the 
page  of  greatest  beauty.  At  dinner  my  wife  took  the  lead  ;  for, 
as  she  always  insisted  upon  carving  everything  herself,  it  being 
her  mother's  way,  she  gave  us,  upon  these  occasions,  the  history 
of  every  dish.  When  we  had  dined,  to  prevent  the  ladies  leaving 
us,  I  generally  ordered  the  table  to  be  removed  and  sometimes, 
with  the  music-master's  assistance,  the  girls  would  give  us  a  very 
agreeable  concert.  Walking  out,  drinking  tea,  country  dances, 
and  forfeits,  shortened  the  rest  of  the  day,  without  the  assistance 
of  cards,  as  I  hated  all  manner  of  gaming,  except  backgammon, 
at  which  my  old  friend  and  I  sometimes  took  a  twopenny  hit. 
Nor  can  I  here  pass  over  an  ominous  circumstance  that  happened 
the  last  time  we  played  together.  I  only  wanted  to  fling  a  quatre, 
and  yet  I  threw  deuce  ace  five  times  running. 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till  at  last  it  was 
thought  convenient  to  fix  a  day  for  the  nuptials  of  the  young 
couple,  who  seemed  earnestly  to  desire  it.  During  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  wedding,  I  need  not  describe  the  busy  importance 
of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly  looks  of  my  daughters  :  in  fact,  my  atten- 
tion was  fixed  on  another  object,  the  completing  a  tract  which  I 
intended  shortly  to  publish  in  defence  of  my  favourite  principle. 
As  I  looked  upon  this  as  a  masterpiece,  both  for  argument  and 
style,  I  could  not,  in  the  pride  of  my  heart,  avoid  showing  it  to 
my  old  friend,  Mr.  Wilmot,  as  I  made  no  doubt  of  receiving  his 
approbation  :  but  not  till  too  late  I  discovered  that  he  was  most 
violently  attached  to  the  contrary  opinion,  and  with  good  reason  ; 
for  he  was  at  that  time  actually  courting  a  fourth  wife.  This,  as 
maybe  expected,  produced  a  dispute  attended  with  some  acrimony, 

VOL.   IV  2  B 


370  ENGLISH  PROSE 


which  threatened  to  interrupt  our  intended  alliance  ;  but,  on  the 
day  before  that  appointed  for  the  ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss 
the  subject  at  large. 

It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on  both  sides.  He  asserted 
that  I  was  heterodox  ;  I  retorted  the  charge  :  he  replied,  and  I 
rejoined.  In  the  meantime,  while  the  controversy  was  hottest,  I 
was  called  out  by  one  of  my  relations,  who,  with  a  face  of  concern, 
advised  me  to  give  up  the  dispute,  at  least  till  my  son's  wedding 
was  over.  "  How,"  cried  I,  "  relinquish  the  cause  of  truth,  and  let 
him  be  a  husband,  already  driven  to  the  very  verge  of  absurdity  ! 
You  might  as  well  advise  me  to  give  up  my  fortune  as  my  argu- 
ment."— "  Your  fortune,"  returned  my  friend,  "  I  am  now  sorry 
to  inform  you,  is  almost  nothing.  The  merchant  in  town,  in 
whose  hands  your  money  was  lodged,  has  gone  off,  to  avoid  a 
statute  of  bankruptcy,  and  is  thought  not  to  have  left  a  shilhng 
in  the  pound.  I  was  unwilling  to  shock  you  or  the  family  with 
the  account  till  after  the  wedding  ;  but  now  it  may  serve  to 
moderate  your  warmth  in  the  argument  ;  for  I  suppose  your  own 
prudence  will  enforce  the  necessity  of  dissembling-,  at  least  till 
your  son  has  the  young  lady's  fortune  secure." — "  Well,"  returned 
I,  "if  what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I  am  to  be  a  beggar,  it 
shall  never  make  me  a  rascal,  or  induce  me  to  disavow  my  prin- 
ciples. I'll  go  this  moment,  and  inform  the  company  of  my 
circumstances  ;  and  as  for  the  argument,  I  even  here  retract  my 
former  concessions  in  the  old  gentleman's  favour,  nor  will  I  allow 
him  now  to  be  a  husband  in  any  sense  of  the  expression." 

It  would   be    endless  to  describe   the  different   sensations   of 

both  families,  when   I  divulged  the  news  of  our  misfortune  :  but 

what  others  felt  was  slight  to  what  the  lovers  appeared  to  endure. 

Mr.  Wilmot,  who  seemed  before  sufficiently  inclined  to  break  off 

the  match,  was  by  this  blow  soon  determined  :  one  virtue  he  had 

in  perfection,  which  was  prudence,  too  often  the  only  one  that  is 

left  us  at  seventy-two.  ,„  ,      o  \ 

■^  (r  rom  the  Same.) 

DEDICATION   OF    THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE 

To  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 

Dear  Sir  —  I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address  of  this 
kind,  either  to  add   to  your   reputation,  or  to  establish   my  own. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  371 

You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration,  as  I  am  ignorant  of 
that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel  ;  and  I  may  lose  much  by 
the  severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few  have  a  juster  taste  in  poetry 
than  you.  Setting  interest,  therefore,  aside,  to  which  I  never 
paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at  present  in  following 
my  affections.  The  only  dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my 
brother,  because  I  loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He  is 
since  dead.      Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  Poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification  and  mere 
mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I  don't  pretend  to  enquire  ;  but 
I  know  you  will  object  (and  indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest 
friends  concur  in  the  opinion)  that  the  depopulation  it  deplores  is 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  the  disorders  it  laments  are  only  to  be 
found  in  the  poet's  own  imagination.  To  this  I  can  scarce  make 
any  other  answer,  than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I  have  written  ; 
that  I  have  taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions,  for 
these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I  allege  ;  and 
that  all  my  views  and  enquiries  have  led  me  to  believe  these 
miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But  this  is  not 
the  place  to  enter  into  an  enquiry  whether  the  country  be  depopu- 
lating or  not :  the  discussion  would  take  up  too  much  room,  and 
I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indifferent  politician,  to  tire  the 
reader  with  a  long  preface,  when  I  want  his  unfatigued  attention 
to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  inveigh  against 
the  increase  of  our  luxuries  ;  and  here  also  I  expect  the  shout  of 
modern  politicians  against  me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past, 
it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest 
national  advantages  ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  in  that  par- 
ticular as  erroneous.  Still,  however,  I  must  remain  a  professed 
ancient  on  that  head,  and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries  preju- 
dicial to  states  by  which  so  many  vices  are  introduced,  and  so 
many  kingdoms  have  been  undone.  Indeed,  so  much  has  been 
poured  out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  novelty  and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish  to 
be  in  the  right. — I  am,  dear  sir,  your  sincere  friend  and  ardent 
admirer, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


EDMUND    BURKE 


[Edmund  Burke,  the  son  of  an  attorney,  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1729. 
He  received  his  schoohng  at  Balhtore,  in  Kildare,  and  entered  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  in  1743,  the  same  year  as  Goldsmith.  His  academic  career  was  un- 
distinguished, but  he  was  assiduous  in  the  practice  of  composition  and 
oratory.  The  present  Historical  Society  of  the  College,  the  cradle  of  all  the 
more  famous  Irish  orators,  is  the  direct  descendant  of  the  Historical  Club, 
founded  by  Burke,  whose  objects,  according  to  the  minutes,  largely  in  Burke's 
handwriting  and  still  preserved,  were  "speaking,  reading,  writing,  and 
arguing  in  morality,  history,  criticism,  politics,  and  all  the  useful  branches  of 
philosophy."  It  was  here  rather  than  in  the  schools  that  Burke  prepared 
himself  for  the  wider  arena  of  the  future.  Many  of  the  minutes  of  this  Society 
having  reference  to  Burke  are  of  especial  interest.  This,  for  example,  antici- 
pating the  later  verdict  of  the  House  of  Commons,- — "  April  28,  1747.  Mr. 
Burke,  for  an  essay  on  the  Genoese,  was  given  thanks  for  the  matter,  but  not 
for  the  delivery."  In  1748  Burke  graduated,  and  two  years  later  proceeded 
to  keep  terms  at  the  Middle  Temple,  but  ultimately  abandoned  his  intention 
of  proceeding  to  the  Bar.  For  ten  years  his  life  in  London  was  chiefly 
occupied  with  literary  work,  and  in  1756  appeared  the  Vindication  of  Natural 
Society,  an  ironical  attack  upon  the  social  philosophy  of  Bolingbroke.  It  was 
followed  in  the  same  year  by  the  celebrated  Philosophical  Inquiry  into  the 
Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  a  book  which  gave  an 
impetus  to  the  treatment  of  aesthetics  as  an  independent  branch  of  thought. 
This  was  the  year  of  his  marriage  with  Miss  Nugent.  From  1759  until  1788 
Burke  contributed  largely  to  the  Annual  Register,  originated  by  himself,  and 
in  1761  he  became  private  secretary  to  "single-speech"  Hamilton,  then 
Secretary  for  Ireland,  a  post  which  he  resigned  in  two  years.  Burke  was 
soon  fairly  launched  upon  political  waters,  and  in  1765  was  appointed 
secretary  to  the  then  Premier,  Lord  Rockingham  ;  the  same  year  he  became 
M.  P.  for  Wendover.  He  attached  himself  strongly  to  the  Whigs  in  their 
opposition  to  the  Court  party  under  the  leadership  of  Lord  North,  the 
favourite  of  George  III.,  who  was  in  power  from  1770  to  1782.  To  these 
twelve  years  belong  the  best  of  Burke's  speeches  and  pamphlets  :  Thoughts  on 
the  present  Discontents  {ijjo),  American  Taxation  (1774),  Conciliation  ivitk 
America  (1775),  Letter  to  the  Sheriffs  of  Bristol  (xj-jj).  Speech  to  the  Bristol 
Electors  (1780).  Burke  sat  as  member  for  Bristol  for  si.x  years  (1774-1780) 
but  lost  his  seat  owing  to  his  attitude  towards  the  American  Colonies,  and 
his  votes  on  the  remedial  measures  proposed  in  the  interests  of  Ireland  and  of 


374  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  Roman  Catholics.  During  the  remainder  of  his  pohtical  hfe  he  repre- 
sented Mahon.  During  the  Rockingham  administration,  and  the  coahtion 
ministry,  led  by  the  Duke  of  Portland,  Burke  held  office  as  Paymaster  of  the 
Forces.  In  1788  he  opened  the  case  for  the  Commons  in  the  impeachment 
of  Warren  Hastings.  In  1790  appeared  the  Reflections  07i  the  French  Revol- 
ution, of  all  his  works  by  far  the  most  widely  read,  and  unapproached  in  its 
immediate  influence  by  any  other  of  his  writings.  From  this  time  until  the 
end  Burke's  entire  energy  was  devoted  to  an  unmeasured  denunciation  of  the 
principles,  leaders,  and  defenders  of  the  French  Revolution.  To  this  period 
belong  the  Appeal  from  the  New  to  the  Old  \  Vhigs,  Thoughts  on  French 
Affairs,  and  Fetters  on  a  Regicide  Peace ;  works  which,  if  less  luminously 
wise,  were  no  less  brilliant  than  the  earlier  masterpieces.  On  his  retirement 
from  public  life  Burke  was  to  have  had  a  peerage,  with  the  title  of  Beaconsficld 
from  his  estate,  but  the  death  of  his  son  Richard  in  1794  left  him  without 
an  heir,  and  the  idea  was  abandoned.  The  pensions  granted  him  in  1794 
were  made  the  occasion  of  an  attack  upon  him,  to  which  the  Letter  to  a  Noble 
Lord  was  a  crushing  rejoinder.      Burke  died  in  1797.] 

It  is  too  late  by  more  than  a  generation  to  pronounce  any  panegyric 
upon  Burke,  to  offer  revised  estimates  or  new  appreciations  of  his 
genius.  He  has  long  since  passed  through  the  vicissitudes  of 
posthumous  fame,  and  no  voice,  whether  of  praise  or  of  detraction, 
can  touch  him  further.  Yet  fixed  as  is  his  place  among  English 
worthies,  the  figure  of  Edmund  Burke  will  ever  occupy  a  niche 
apart,  clothed  with  a  splendid  but  pathetic  dignity.  His  was  an 
unhappy  greatness,  and  judged  by  vulgar  standard,  a  pre-eminence 
in  failure.  It  seemed  as  if  the  stars  in  their  courses  warred 
against  his  best  considered  schemes  and  wisest  policies,  and  only 
wearied  in  their  opposition  when  the  eye  of  his  judgment  became 
dimmed,  and  the  ear  of  his  reason  dull  of  hearing.  The  later 
biographers  have  added  little  to  the  familiar  story.  He  gave  the 
best  strength  of  his  best  days  to  the  exclusive  service  of  his 
country  ;  he  was  admitted  to  be  the  most  powerful  thinker  of  his 
age  ;  he  was  in  reality,  perhaps,  the  greatest  of  philosophic  states- 
men of  any  age  ;  his  thought-compelling  speech  was  heard  upon 
every  subject  which  can  engage  the  attention  of  serious  students 
of  politics  ;  time  and  the  course  of  subsequent  events  have  done 
abundant  honour  to  his  political  foresight ;  and,  with  all  this,  he 
never  held  even  second-rate  office  ;  as  a  statesman  he  can  hardly 
be  said  to  have  left  any  conspicuous  record  of  himself  writ  in 
remedial  legislation  upon  the  statute-book  of  England  ;  and,  while 
his  is  absent,  the  names  of  infinitely  lesser  men  shine  among 
the  makers  of  history.  Burke's  far-darting  sagacity,  his  most  con- 
vincing logic,  his  tireless  energy  were  alike  fruitless  of  curative 


EDMUND  BURKE  375 


issue  for  the  distractions  and  difficulties  of  his  time.  His  protest 
against  the  parliamentary  tyranny  which  excluded  Wilkes  from 
the  House  passed  contemptuously  unheeded,  When  the  spirit  of 
discontent  crossed  the  Atlantic,  in  eveiy  phase  of  the  troubles 
with  the  American  Colonies  his  advice  was  negatived  again  and 
again  by  large  majorities.  His  high-spirited  independence 
and  magnanimous  advocacy  of  the  claims  of  Ireland,  and 
of  the  Roman  Catholics,  resulted  in  his  rejection  from  the  repre- 
sentation of  Bristol  after  six  years  of  service.  He  espoused  in  an 
historic  trial  the  cause  of  the  Indian  peoples  against  oppression, 
and  the  representative  of  the  policy  of  oppression  was  acquitted. 
By  a  strange  irony,  Burke  attained  popularity  and  influence  only 
when,  after  a  long  and  ardent  career  of  eloquent  vindication  of 
the  true  principles  of  freedom,  he  declined  into  vehement  and 
almost  fanatical  diatribe,  and  that  in  an  indictment  of  doubtful 
justice  against  an  exasperated  and  sorely  harassed  people  ;  a 
whole  people  who,  goaded  into  revolution,  broke  from  their  necks 
the  double  yoke  of  Court  and  Church,  a  no  longer  tolerable 
tyranny,  at  best  defensible  only  because  aristocratic,  and  reverend 
merely  by  reason  of  its  age. 

It  needs  no  laboured  inquiry  to  explain  the  ill-success  of 
Burke  as  an  influence  in  the  conduct  of  public  aftairs.  He  was 
in  many  respects  seriously  disqualified  for  success.  As  lunncs 
homo,  the  charge  of  being  an  adventurer,  and,  at  times  even  a 
Jesuit  in  disguise,  pursued  him  closely  through  life.  He  wor- 
shipped too  high  an  ideal,  cherished  too  nice  a  conscience  for 
his  age,  and,  more  fatal  than  all  else,  he  was  a  man  of  ideas. 
The  qualities  in  his  speeches,  to  which  time  does  reverence,  are 
the  qualities  that  discharged  them  of  weight  in  the  scale  of 
immediate  effect.  Weaker  wits  were  bafiled  by  the  breadth  of  a 
philosophic  treatment  which  converted  familiar  questions  into  un- 
familiar, and  were  little  inclined  to  relish  the  transformation  of 
party  problems  soluble  in  their  simpler  fashion  into  complex  knots 
of  hitherto  unsuspected  relationships.  In  later  years,  when  the 
early  prejudices  were  almost  outworn,  the  slanders  lived  down, 
and  his  attitude  and  methods  better  understood,  the  strain  of  the 
long  struggle  with  obstinate  ignorance  and  unreason  began  to 
betray  itself  in  his  loss  of  self-restraint  and  his  irascibility  of 
temper,  and  it  seems  to  have  been  convincingly  felt  that  he  would 
prove  a  risky  if  not  impossible  colleague. 

Embitterment  and  despair  are  the  common  recompense  of  the 


376  ENGLISH  PROSE 


enthusiast.  Rarely  do  men  engage  hotly,  as  Burke  engaged, 
against  the  eidola  of  the  den  and  of  the  market  place,  the  follies, 
prejudices,  animosities  that  sway  society,  and  none  the  less  pre- 
serve their  souls  in  patience.  In  the  end  Burke's  patience  gave 
way.  The  events  that  preceded  the  Revolution  in  France 
which  kindled  in  so  many  minds  the  hope  that  the  great  day  of 
freedom  was  at  hand,  had  for  him  only  significance  of  threatening 
omen,  but  it  was  his  heart  rather  than  his  head  that  first  took 
alarm.  Much  has  been  said  and  written  of  his  attitude  in  this 
great  crisis  ;  two  things  are  indisputable.  He  was  not  complete 
master  of  the  facts,  but  he  put  his  finger  with  instant  prescience 
upon  the  weaknesses,  that  afterwards  broadened  into  failure,  of 
the  revolutionary  theories  ;  and  however  true  it  may  be  that  the 
wrongs  and  injustices  of  the  confiscations  and  massacres  loomed 
larger  before  the  eye  of  his  imagination  than  the  wrongs  and 
injustices  that  inflamed  the  spirit  and  forged  the  weapons  of  revolt, 
Burke's  allegiance  was  never  transferred  from  one  set  of  principles 
to  another.  At  no  period  of  his  life  could  he  have  brooked  a 
divorce  between  liberty  and  justice ;  he  saw  in  the  existing 
institutions  of  society  the  collective  wisdom  of  ages ;  to  him  it 
seemed  that  if  a  choice  were  to  be  made  between  tyranny  and 
anarchy,  tyranny  was  preferable,  and  that  peace  was  more  than 
truth  itself  save  when  truth  were  demonstrated  beyond  the  yea 
and  nay  of  controversy.  Perhaps  with  all  its  breadth  and  depth 
there  is  no  philosophy,  whether  of  the  state  or  of  private  life,  at 
once  so  human,  and  so  manly  as  Burke's  ;  so  free  from  affectation, 
so  reasonable  and  practical ;  and  all  this  because  it  rests  upon  no 
abstract  theory,  buttressed  by  ingenious  logic,  but  is  rather  a 
natural  growth  that  has  everywhere  its  roots  deep  stmck  in  the 
soil  of  experience  of  human  passion,  human  weakness,  and  human 
power.  It  was  natural  in  one  whose  lifework  had  been  the 
construction  of  a  system  of  political  faith  devoted  to  the  honour  of 
a  slow-evolving  and  sure-footed  freedom  sprung  from  historic  tradi- 
tion and  the  sanctity  of  established  order, — it  was  natural  and 
consistent  in  such  a  man  to  read  in  the  signs  of  the  times  the 
handwriting  upon  the  wall  prophetic  of  the  dissolution  of  all 
ancient  and  sacred  institutions  and  the  ruin  of  the  splendid  fabric, 
slowly  woven  in  the  loom  of  ages,  of  an  ordered  society.  Yet 
Burke  himself  at  the  last  might  hardly  have  cared  to  deny  that 
the  wisdom  of  his  age  yielded  to  that  of  his  confident  youth  when 
he  said  "  I  do  not  know  the  method  of  drawing  up  an  indictment 


EDMUND  BURKE  377 


against  a  whole  people."  Until  the  end  of  time  there  can  be  no 
other  last  word  in  defence  of  Revolution. 

How  much  of  the  artist  dwelt  in  the  brain  of  the  statesman  the 
record  of  his  indefatig^able  toil  in  composition  is  witness.  In 
answer  to  the  assertion  that  he  is  the  greatest  of  English  prose 
writers  it  is  often  said  that  his  style  lacks  restraint  and  the  dignity 
that  accompanies  resen'e.  His  temper  rather  than  any  lack  of 
taste  made  him  too  eager-voiced  ;  he  grasped  at  much  that  did 
not  fall  naturally  within  his  reach,  lost  chiaroscuro  in  unrelieved 
emphasis,  and  attained  the  massive  at  the  expense  of  the  beautiful. 
But  genius  like  Burke's  declines  the  selective  economy  of  weaker 
artists  compelled  to  a  choice  of  material  easily  handled.  He 
swept  into  his  service  all  that  his  excursive  imagination  took  cap- 
tive, and  frequently  marshals  an  unequal  array  of  arguments. 
But  if  his  touch  fails  at  times  to  transmute  the  baser  metal  into 
gold,  amid  such  profusion  as  his  we  cannot  feel  ourselves  the 
poorer. 

The  dawn  of  Burke's  day  of  real  power  was  delayed,  but  its 
sun  is  not  likely  to  set  while  men  study  the  problems  of  govern- 
ment. In  life  he  was  a  knight-errant  more  renowned  for  prowess 
than  for  fortune,  but  he  so  ennobled  the  art,  so  enriched  the 
philosophy  of  politics  by  a  treatment  at  once  detailed  and  com- 
prehensive, at  once  critical  and  inspiring,  that  his  life  and  writings 
together  form  the  noblest  and  most  complete  orgaiion  of  states- 
manship ever  left  to  the  world.  It  is  his  supreme  distinction  in 
an  era  of  intense  party  feeling  to  have  lifted  eveiy  cjuestion  he 
touched  into  a  higher  sphere  of  intellectual  and  moral  contemplation, 
to  have  broadened  particular  issues,  and  linked  them  with  the  most 
universal  principles  of  human  thought,  to  have  balanced  and 
adjusted  the  relations  of  abstract  political  speculation  and  practical 
statecraft,  to  have  shown  that  debate  may  be  made  to  yield  other 
than  provincial  and  temporary  wisdom,  and  that  philosophy  may 
mingle  with  the  affairs  of  parties.  His  influence,  take  it  as  you 
will,  is  wholly  sanative.  It  is  not  resident  in  the  lucid  beauty  of 
his  diction,  nor  in  wealth  of  illustrative  imagery,  nor  even  alone  in 
the  thought  that  gathers  strength  in  its  progress  from  point  to 
point,  winding,  in  Goldsmith's  phrase,  into  its  subject  like  a  ser- 
pent. Burke  speaks  a  word  to  the  imagination  while  he  deals 
with  matters  the  most  familiar,  or  handles  masses  of  concrete 
detail,  and  the  music  of  his  speech  has  its  secret  springs  in  the 
moral   ardour  and  swift  sympathies  of  his  nature.      There  goes 


378  ENGLISH  PROSE 


forth  from  his  writings  a  heaHng  virtue  whose  magic  calls  to  mind 
the  fine  boast  of  Antiphon,  that  he  would  cure  diseases  of  the 
mind  with  words.  His  political  art  dealt  neither  in  drugs  nor 
charms  for  the  people,  but  only  in  such  spiritual  simples  as  bring 
the  soul  into  harmony  with  the  beauty  of  reason. 


W.  Macneile  Dixon. 


THE  TRUE   POLICY  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN  TOWARDS 
HER  AMERICAN   COLONIES 

I  AM  sensible,  sir,  that  all  which  I  have  asserted  in  my  detail  is 
admitted  in  the  gross,  but  that  quite  a  different  conclusion  is 
drawn  from  it.  America,  gentlemen  say,  is  a  noble  object.  It 
is  an  object  well  worth  fighting  for.  Certainly  it  is,  if  fighting  a 
people  is  the  best  way  of  gaining  them.  Gentlemen  in  this 
respect  will  be  led  to  their  choice  of  means  by  their  complexions 
and  their  habits.  Those  who  understand  the  military  art  will  of 
course  have  some  predilection  for  it.  Those  who  wield  the 
thunder  of  the  state  may  have  more  confidence  in  the  efficacy  of 
arms.  But  I  confess,  possibly  for  want  of  this  knowledge,  my 
opinion  is  much  more  in  favour  of  prudent  management  than  of 
force  ;  considering  force  not  as  an  odious,  but  a  feeble  instrument, 
for  preserving  a  people  so  numerous,  so  active,  so  growing,  so 
spirited  as  this,  in  a  profitable  and  subordinate  connexion  with  us. 

First,  sir,  permit  me  to  observe,  that  the  use  of  force  alone  is 
but  temporary.  It  may  subdue  for  a  moment,  but  it  does  not 
remove  the  necessity  of  subduing  again  ;  and  a  nation  is  not 
governed,  which  is  perpetually  to  be  conquered. 

My  next  objection  is  its  uncertainty.  Terror  is  not  always  the 
effect  of  force,  and  an  armament  is  not  a  victory.  If  you  do  not 
succeed,  you  are  without  resource  ;  for,  conciliation  failing',  force 
remains  ;  but,  force  failing,  no  further  hope  of  reconciliation  is 
left.  Power  and  authority  are  sometimes  bought  by  kindness  ; 
but  they  can  never  be  begged  as  alms  by  an  impoverished  and 
defeated  violence. 

A  further  objection  to  force  is,  that  you  impair  the  object  by 
your  very  endeavours  to  preserve  it.  The  thing  you  fought  for 
is  not  the  thing  you  recover  ;  but  depreciated,  sunk,  wasted,  and 
consumed  in  the  contest.  Nothing  less  will  content  me,  than 
whole  America.      I   do  not  choose  to  consume  its  strength  along 


38o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


with  our  own  ;  because  in  all  parts  it  is  the  British  strength  that 
1  consume.  I  do  not  choose  to  be  caught  by  a  foreign  enemy  at 
the  end  of  this  exhausting  conflict  ;  still  less  in  the  midst  of  it. 
I  may  escape ;  but  I  can  make  no  insurance  against  such  an 
event.  Let  me  add,  that  I  do  not  choose  wholly  to  break  the 
American  spirit  ;  because  it  is  the  spirit  that  has  made  the  country. 

Lastly,  we  have  no  sort  of  experience  in  favour  of  force  as  an 
instrument  in  the  rule  of  our  colonies.  Their  growth  and  their 
utility  has  been  owing  to  methods  altogether  different.  Our 
ancient  indulgence  has  been  said  to  be  pursued  to  a  fault.  It 
may  be  so.  But  we  know,  if  feeling  is  evidence,  that  our  fault 
was  more  tolerable  than  our  attempt  to  mend  it  ;  and  our  sin  far 
more  salutary  than  our  penitence. 

These,  sir,  are  my  reasons  for  not  entertaining  that  high 
opinion  of  untried  force,  by  which  many  gentlemen,  for  whose 
sentiments  in  other  particulars  I  have  great  respect,  seem  to  be 
so  greatly  captivated.  But  there  is  still  behind  a  third  considera- 
tion concerning  this  object,  which  serves  to  determine  my  opinion 
on  the  sort  of  policy  which  ought  to  be  pursued  in  the  manage- 
ment of  America,  even  more  than  its  population  and  commerce, 
1  mean  its  temper  and  character. 

In  this  character  of  the  Americans,  a  love  of  freedom  is  the 
predominating  feature  which  marks  and  distinguishes  the  whole  ; 
and  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jealous  affection,  your  colonies 
become  suspicious,  restive,  and  untractable,  whenever  they  see 
the  least  attempt  to  wrest  from  them  by  force,  or  shuffle  from 
them  by  chicane,  what  they  think  the  only  advantage  worth  living 
for.  This  fierce  spirit  of  liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English 
colonies  probably  than  in  any  other  people  of  the  earth  ;  and  this 
from  a  great  variety  of  powerful  causes,  which,  to  understand  the 
true  temper  of  their  minds,  and  the  direction  which  this  spirit 
takes,  it  will  not  be  amiss  to  lay  open  somewhat  more  largely. 

First,  the  people  of  the  colonies  are  descendants  of  English- 
men. England,  sir,  is  a  nation,  which  still  1  hope  respects,  and 
formerly  adored,  her  freedom.  The  colonists  emigrated  from 
you  when  this  part  of  your  character  was  most  predominant,  and 
they  took  this  bias  and  direction  the  moment  they  parted  from 
your  hands.  They  are  therefore  not  only  devoted  to  liberty,  but 
to  liberty  according  to  English  ideas,  and  on  English  principles. 
Abstract  liberty,  like  other  mere  abstractions,  is  not  to  be  found. 
Liberty  inheres  in  some  sensible  object  ;  and  every  nation  has 


EDMUND  BURKE  381 


formed  to  itself  some  favourite  point,  which  by  way  of  eminence 
becomes  the  criterion  of  their  happiness.  It  happened,  you 
know,  sir,  that  the  great  contests  for  freedom  in  this  country 
were  from  the  earhest  times  chiefly  upon  the  question  of  taxing. 
Most  of  the  contests  in  the  ancient  commonwealths  turned 
primarily  on  the  right  of  election  of  magistrates,  or  on  the 
balance  among  the  several  orders  of  the  state.  The  question  of 
money  was  not  with  them  so  immediate.  But  in  England  it  was 
otherwise.  On  this  point  of  taxes  the  ablest  pens  and  most 
eloquent  tongues  have  been  exercised  ;  the  greatest  spirits  have 
acted  and  suffered.  In  order  to  give  the  fullest  satisfaction 
concerning  the  importance  of  this  point,  it  was  not  only  necessary 
for  those  who  in  argument  defended  the  excellence  of  the  English 
constitution,  to  insist  on  this  privilege  of  granting  money  as  a  dry 
point  of  fact,  and  to  prove,  that  the  right  had  been  acknowledged 
in  ancient  parchments,  and  blind  usages,  to  reside  in  a  certain 
body  called  a  House  of  Commons.  They  went  much  further  ; 
they  attempted  to  prove,  and  they  succeeded,  that  in  theory  it 
ought  to  be  so,  from  the  particular  nature  of  a  House  of 
Commons,  as  an  immediate  representative  of  the  people,  whether 
the  old  records  had  delivered  this  oracle  or  not.  They  took 
infinite  pains  to  inculcate  as  a  fundamental  principle,  that  in  all 
monarchies  the  people  must  in  effect  themselves,  mediately  or 
immediately,  possess  the  power  of  granting  their  own  money,  or 
no  shadow  of  liberty  could  subsist.  The  colonies  draw  from  you, 
as  with  their  life-blood,  those  ideas  and  principles.  Their  love  of 
liberty,  as  with  you,  fixed  and  attached  on  this  specific  point  of 
taxing.  Liberty  might  be  safe,  or  might  be  endangered  in  twenty 
other  particulars,  without  their  being  much  pleased  or  alarmed. 
Here  they  felt  its  pulse  ;  and  as  they  found  that  beat  they  thought 
themselves  sick  or  sound.  I  do  not  say  whether  they  were  right 
or  wrong  in  applying  your  general  arguments  to  their  own  case. 
It  is  not  easy  indeed  to  make  a  monopoly  of  theorems  and 
corollaries.  The  fact  is,  that  they  did  thus  apply  those  general 
arguments  ;  and  your  mode  of  governing  them,  whether  through 
lenity  or  indolence,  through  wisdom  or  mistake,  confirmed  them 
in  the  imagination,  that  they,  as  well  as  you,  had  an  interest  in 
these  common  principles. 

They  were  further  confirmed  in  this  pleasing  error  by  the 
form  of  their  provincial  legislative  assemblies.  Their  governments 
are  popular  in  a  high  degree  ;  some  are  merely  popular ;  in  all, 


382  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  popular  representative  is  the  most  weighty  ;  and  this  share  of 
the  people  in  their  ordinary  government  never  fails  to  inspire 
them  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  with  a  strong  aversion  from  what- 
ever tends  to  deprive  them  of  their  chief  importance. 

If  anything  were  wanting  to  this  necessaiy  operation  of  the 
form  of  government,  religion  would  have  given  it  a  complete 
effect.  Religion,  always  a  principle  of  energy,  in  this  new  people 
is  no  way  worn  out  or  impaired  ;  and  their  mode  of  professing  it 
is  also  one  main  cause  of  this  free  spirit.  The  people  are 
Protestants ;  and  of  that  kind  which  is  most  adverse  to  all 
implicit  submission  of  mind  and  opinion.  This  is  a  persuasion 
not  only  favourable  to  liberty,  but  built  upon  it.  I  do  not  think 
sir,  that  the  reason  of  this  averseness  in  the  dissenting  churches, 
from  all  that  looks  like  absolute  government,  is  so  much  to  be 
sought  in  their  religious  tenets,  as  in  their  history.  Everyone 
knows  that  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  is  at  least  coeval  with 
most  of  the  governments  where  it  prevails  ;  that  it  has  generally 
gone  hand  in  hand  with  them,  and  received  great  favour  and 
every  kind  of  support  from  authority.  The  Church  of  England 
too  was  formed  from  her  cradle  under  the  nursing  care  of  regular 
government.  But  the  dissenting  interests  have  sprung  up  in 
direct  opposition  to  all  the  ordinary  powers  of  the  world  ;  and 
could  justify  that  opposition  only  on  a  strong  claim  to  natural 
liberty.  Their  very  existence  depended  on  the  powerful  and  un- 
remitted assertion  of  that  claim.  All  Protestantism,  even  the 
most  cold  and  passive,  is  a  sort  of  dissent.  But  the  religion 
most  prevalent  in  our  northern  colonies  is  a  refinement  on  the 
principle  of  resistance  ;  it  is  the  dissidence  of  dissent,  and  the 
Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion.  This  religion,  under  a 
variety  of  denominations  agreeing  in  nothing  but  in  the  communion 
of  the  spirit  of  liberty,  is  predominant  in  most  of  the  northern 
provinces  ;  where  the  Church  of  England,  notwithstanding  its 
legal  rights,  is  in  reality  no  more  than  a  private  sect,  not  compos- 
ing most  probably  the  tenth  of  the  people.  The  colonists  left 
England  when  this  spirit  was  high,  and  in  the  emigrants  was 
highest  of  all ;  and  even  that  stream  of  foreigners,  which  has 
been  constantly  flowing  into  these  colonies,  has  for  the  greatest 
part  been  composed  of  dissenters  from  the  establishments  of  their 
several  countries,  and  have  brought  with  them  a  temper  and 
character  far  from  alien  to  that  of  the  people  with  whom  they 
mixed. 


EDMUND  BURKE  383 


Sir,  I  can  perceive  by  their  manner,  that  some  gentlemen 
object  to  the  latitude  of  this  description  ;  because  in  the  southern 
colonies  the  Church  of  England  forms  a  large  body,  and  has  a 
regular  establishment.  It  is  certainly  true.  There  is,  however, 
a  circumstance  attending  these  colonies,  which,  in  my  opinion, 
fully  counterbalances  this  difference,  and  makes  the  spirit  of 
liberty  still  more  high  and  haughty  than  in  those  to  the  north- 
ward. It  is,  that  in  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas  they  have  a  vast 
multitude  of  slaves.  Where  this  is  the  case  in  any  part  of  the 
world,  those  who  are  free,  are  by  far  the  most  proud  and  jealous 
of  their  freedom.  Freedom  is  to  them  not  only  an  enjoyment, 
but  a  kind  of  rank  and  privilege.  Not  seeing  there,  that  freedom, 
as  in  countries  where  it  is  a  common  blessing,  and  as  broad  and 
general  as  the  air,  may  be  united  with  much  abject  toil,  with 
great  misery,  with  all  the  exterior  of  servitude,  liberty  looks, 
amongst  them,  like  something  that  is  more  noble  and  liberal.  I 
do  not  mean,  sir,  to  commend  the  superior  morality  of  this 
sentiment,  which  has  at  least  as  much  pride  as  virtue  in  it  ;  but  I 
cannot  alter  the  nature  of  man.  The  fact  is  so ;  and  these 
people  of  the  southern  colonies  are  much  more  strongly,  and  with 
a  higher  and  more  stubborn  spirit,  attached  to  liberty,  than  those 
to  the  northward.  Such  were  all  the  ancient  commonwealths  ; 
such  were  our  Gothic  ancestors  ;  such  in  our  days  were  the  Poles  ; 
and  such  will  be  all  masters  of  slaves,  who  are  not  slaves  them- 
selves. In  such  a  people,  the  haughtiness  of  domination  combines 
with  the  spirit  of  freedom,  fortifies  it,  and  renders  it  invincible. 

Permit  me,  sir,  to  add  another  circumstance  in  our  colonies, 
which  contributes  no  mean  part  towards  the  growth  and  effect  of 
this  untractable  spirit.  I  mean  their  education.  In  no  country 
perhaps  in  the  world  is  the  law  so  general  a  study.  The  profes- 
sion itself  is  numerous  and  powerful  ;  and  in  most  provinces  it 
takes  the  lead.  The  greater  number  of  the  deputies  sent  to  the 
congress  were  lawyers.  But  all  who  read,  and  most  do  read, 
endeavour  to  obtain  some  smattering  in  that  science.  I  have 
been  told  by  an  eminent  bookseller,  that  in  no  branch  of  his 
business,  after  tracts  of  popular  devotion,  were  so  many  books  as 
those  on  the  law  exported  to  the  plantations.  The  colonists  have 
now  fallen  into  the  way  of  printing  them  for  their  own  use.  I 
hear  that  they  have  sold  nearly  as  many  of  Blackstone's  Comment- 
aries in  America  as  in  England.  General  Gage  marks  out  this 
disposition  very  particularly  in  a  letter  on  your  table.      He  states 


384  ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  all  the  people  in  his  government  are  lawyers,  or  smatterers 
in  law  ;  and  that  in  Boston  they  have  been  enabled,  by  successful 
chicane,  wholly  to  evade  many  parts  of  one  of  your  capital  penal 
constitutions.  The  smartness  of  debate  will  say,  that  this  know- 
ledge ought  to  teach  them  more  clearly  the  rights  of  the  legis- 
lature, their  obligations  to  obedience,  and  the  penalties  of  rebellion. 
All  this  is  mighty  well.  But  my  honourable  and  learned  friend 
on  the  floor,  who  condescends  to  mark  what  I  say  for  animad- 
version, will  disdain  that  ground.  He  has  heard,  as  well  as  I, 
that  when  great  honours  and  great  emoluments  do  not  win  over 
this  knowledge  to  the  service  of  the  state,  it  is  a  formidable 
adversary  to  government.  If  the  spirit  be  not  tamed  and  broken 
by  these  happy  methods,  it  is  stubborn  and  litigious.  Abeunt 
studia  in  mores.  This  study  renders  men  acute,  inquisitive, 
dexterous,  prompt  in  attack,  ready  in  defence,  full  of  resources. 
In  other  countries,  the  people,  more  simple,  and  of  a  less 
mercurial  cast,  judge  of  an  ill  principle  in  government  only  by 
an  actual  grievance  ;  here  they  anticipate  the  evil  and  judge  of 
the  pressure  of  the  grievance  by  the  badness  of  the  principle. 
They  augur  misgovernment  at  a  distance  ;  and  snuff  the  approach 
of  tyranny  in  every  tainted  breeze. 

The  last  cause  of  this  disobedient  spirit  in  the  colonies  is 
hardly  less  powerful  than  the  rest,  as  it  is  not  merely  moral,  but 
laid  deep  in  the  natural  constitution  of  things.  Three  thousand 
miles  of  ocean  lie  between  you  and  them.  No  contrivance  can 
prevent  the  effect  of  this  distance  in  weakening  government. 
Seas  roll,  and  months  pass,  between  the  order  and  the  execution  ; 
and  the  want  of  a  speedy  explanation  of  a  single  point  is  enough 
to  defeat  a  whole  system.  You  have,  indeed,  winged  ministers 
of  vengeance,  who  carry  your  bolts  in  their  pounces  to  the 
remotest  verge  of  the  sea.  But  there  a  power  steps  in,  that 
limits  the  arrogance  of  raging  passions  and  furious  elements,  and 
says,  "  So  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther."  Who  are  you, 
that  should  fret  and  rage,  and  bite  the  chains  of  nature  ? — 
Nothing  worse  happens  to  you  than  does  to  all  nations  who  have 
extensive  empire  ;  and  it  happens  in  all  the  forms  into  which 
empire  can  be  thrown.  In  large  bodies,  the  circulation  of  power 
must  be  less  vigorous  at  the  extremities.  Nature  has  said  it. 
The  Turk  cannot  govern  Egypt,  and  Arabia,  and  Curdistan,  as 
he  governs  Thrace  ;  nor  has  he  the  same  dominion  in  Crimea 
and  Algiers,    which   he  has  at   Brusa  and    Smyrna.      Despotism 


EDMUND  BURKE  385 


itself  is  obliged  to  truck  and  huckster.  The  Sultan  gets  such 
obedience  as  he  can.  He  governs  with  a  loose  rein,  that  he  may 
govern  at  all  ;  and  the  whole  of  the  force  and  vigour  of  his  author- 
ity in  his  centre  is  derived  from  a  prudent  relaxation  in  all  his 
borders.  Spain  in  her  provinces,  is,  perhaps,  not  so  well  obeyed 
as  you  in  yours.  She  complies  too  ;  she  submits  ;  she  watches 
times.  This  is  the  immutable  condition,  the  eternal  law,  of 
extensive  and  detached  empire. 

Then,  sir,  from  these  six  capital  sources  ;  of  descent  ;  of  form 
of  government  ;  of  religion  in  the  northern  provinces  ;  of  manners 
in  the  southern  ;  of  education  ;  of  the  remoteness  of  situation 
from  the  first  mover  of  government  ;  from  all  these  causes  a  fierce 
spirit  of  liberty  has  grown  up.  It  has  grown  with  the  growth  of 
the  people  in  your  colonies,  and  increased  with  the  increase  of 
their  wealth  ;  a  spirit,  that  unhappily  meeting  with  an  exercise 
of  power  in  England,  which,  however  lawful,  is  not  reconcilable  to 
any  ideas  of  liberty,  much  less  with  theirs,  has  kindled  this  flame 
that  is  ready  to  consume  us. 


(From  Speech  on  Coiiciliaiion  with  America.') 


DEFENCE  OF  HIS   POLITICAL  CONDUCT 

I  IVIUST  fairly  tell  you,  that  so  far  as  my  principles  are  concerned, 
principles  that  I  hope  will  only  depart  with  my  last  breath,  I 
have  no  idea  of  a  liberty  unconnected  with  honesty  and  justice 
Nor  do  I  believe  that  any  good  constitutions  of  government,  or 
of  freedom,  can  find  it  necessary  for  their  security  to  doom  any 
part  of  the  people  to  a  permanent  slavery.  Such  a  constitution 
of  freedom,  if  such  can  be,  is  in  effect  no  more  than  another 
name  for  the  tyranny  of  the  strongest  faction  ;  and  factions  in 
republics  have  been,  and  are,  full  as  capable  as  monarchs  of  the 
most  cruel  oppression  and  injustice.  It  is  but  too  true,  that  the 
love,  and  even  the  very  idea,  of  genuine  liberty  is  extremely  rare. 
It  is  but  too  true,  that  there  are  many  whose  whole  scheme  of 
freedom  is  made  up  of  pride,  perverseness,  and  insolence.  They 
feel  themselves  in  a  state  of  thraldom,  they  imagine  that  their 
souls  are  cooped  up  and  cabined  in,  unless  they  have  some  man, 
or  some  body  of  men,  dependent  on  their  mercy.  This  desire  of 
having  some  one  below  them  descends  to  those  who  are  the  very 
VOL.  IV  2  c 


386  ENGLISH  PROSE 


lowest  of  all — and  a  Protestant  cobbler,  debased  by  his  poverty, 
but  exalted  by  his  share  of  the  ruling  church,  feels  a  pride  in 
knowing  it  is  by  his  generosity  alone,  that  the  peer,  whose 
footman's  instep  he  measures,  is  able  to  keep  his  chaplain  from  a 
jail.  This  disposition  is  the  true  source  of  the  passion,  which 
inany  men,  in  very  humble  life,  have  taken  to  the  American  war. 
Our  subjects  in  America,  our  colonies,  our  dependants.  This 
lust  of  party-power  is  the  liberty  they  hunger  and  thirst  for,  and 
this  syren  song  of  ambition  has  charmed  ears  that  one  would 
have  thought  were  never  organised  to  that  sort  of  music. 

This  way  of  proscribing  the  citizens  by  denominations  and 
general  descriptions,  dignified  by  the  name  of  reason  of  state, 
and  security  for  constitutions  and  commonwealths,  is  nothing 
better  at  bottom,  than  the  miserable  invention  of  an  ungenerous 
ambition,  which  would  fain  hold  the  sacred  trust  of  power, 
without  any  of  the  virtues  or  any  of  the  energies  that  give  a  title 
to  it ;  a  receipt  of  policy,  made  up  of  a  detestable  compound  of 
malice,  cowardice,  and  sloth.  They  would  govern  men  against 
their  will ;  but  in  that  government  they  would  be  discharged 
from  the  exercise  of  vigilance,  providence,  and  fortitude ;  and 
therefore,  that  they  may  sleep  on  their  watch,  they  consent  to 
take  some  one  division  of  the  society  into  partnership  of  the 
tyranny  over  the  rest.  But  let  government,  in  what  form  it  may 
be,  comprehend  the  whole  in  its  justice,  and  restrain  the 
suspicious  by  its  vigilance  ;  let  it  keep  watch  and  ward  ;  let  it 
discover  by  its  sagacity,  and  punish  by  its  firmness,  all  delinquency 
against  its  power,  whenever  delinquency  exists  in  the  overt  acts  ; 
and  then  it  will  be  as  safe  as  ever  God  and  nature  intended  it 
should  be.  Crimes  are  the  acts  of  individuals  and  not  of 
denominations ;  and  therefore  arbitrarily  to  class  men  under 
general  descriptions,  in  order  to  proscribe  and  punish  them  in 
the  lump  for  a  presumed  delinquency,  of  which  perhaps  but  a 
part,  perhaps  none  at  all,  are  guilty,  is  indeed  a  compendious 
method,  and  saves  a  world  of  trouble  about  proof;  but  such  a 
method,  instead  of  being  law,  is  an  act  of  unnatural  rebellion 
against  the  legal  dominion  of  reason  and  justice  ;  and  this  vice, 
in  any  constitution  that  entertains  it,  at  one  time  or  other  will 
certainly  bring  on  its  ruin. 

We  are  told  that  this  is  not  a  religious  persecution,  and  its 
abettors  are  loud  in  disclaiming  all  severities  on  account  of 
conscience.     Very  fine  indeed  !     Then  let  it  be  so  ;  they  are  not 


EDMUND  BURKE  387 


persecutors,  they  are  only  tyrants.  With  all  my  heart.  I  am 
perfectly  indifferent  concerning  the  pretext  on  which  we  torment 
one  another,  or  whether  it  be  for  the  constitution  of  the  Church 
of  England,  or  for  the  constitution  of  the  state  of  England 
that  people  choose  to  make  their  fellow -creatures  wretched. 
When  we  were  sent  into  a  place  of  authority,  you  that  sent 
us  had  yourselves  but  one  commission  to  give.  You  could 
give  us  none  to  wrong  or  oppress,  or  even  to  suffer  any  kind 
of  oppression  or  wrong,  on  any  grounds  whatsoever :  not  on 
political,  as  in  the  affairs  of  America  ;  not  on  commercial,  as  in 
those  of  Ireland  ;  not  in  civil,  as  in  the  laws  for  debt  ;  not  in 
religious,  as  in  the  statutes  against  Protestant  or  Catholic 
dissenters.  The  diversified  but  connected  fabric  of  universal 
justice  is  well  cramped  and  bolted  together  in  all  its  parts  ;  and 
depend  upon  it,  I  have  never  employed,  and  I  never  shall 
employ,  any  engine  of  power  which  may  come  into  my  hands  to 
wrench  it  asunder.  All  shall  stand,  if  I  can  help  it,  and  all  shall 
stand  connected.  After  all,  to  complete  this  work,  much  remains 
to  be  done  ;  much  in  the  East,  much  in  the  West.  But,  great  as 
the  work  is,  if  our  will  be  ready,  our  powers  are  not  deficient. 

Since  you  have  suffered  me  to  trouble  you  so  much  on  this 
subject,  permit  me,  gentlemen,  to  detain  you  a  little  longer.  I 
am  indeed  most  solicitous  to  give  you  perfect  satisfaction.  I  find 
there  are  some  of  a  better  and  softer  nature  than  the  persons 
with  whom  I  had  supposed  myself  in  debate,  who  neither  think 
ill  of  the  act  of  relief,  nor  by  any  means  desire  the  repeal  ;  yet 
who,  not  accusing  but  lamenting  what  was  done,  on  account  of 
the  consequences,  have  frequently  expressed  their  wish,  that  the 
late  act  had  never  been  made.  Some  of  this  description,  and 
persons  of  worth,  I  have  met  with  in  this  city.  They  conceive 
that  the  prejudices,  whatever  they  might  be,  of  a  large  part  of 
the  people,  ought  not  to  have  been  shocked,  that  their  opinions 
ought  to  have  been  previously  taken,  and  much  attended  to  ;  and 
that  thereby  the  late  horrid  scenes  might  have  been  prevented. 

I  confess,  my  notions  are  widely  different  ;  and  I  never  was 
less  sorry  for  any  action  of  my  life.  I  like  the  bill  the  better  on 
account  of  the  events  of  all  kinds  that  followed  it.  It  relieved  the 
real  sufferers  ;  it  strengthened  the  state  ;  and  by  the  disorders  that 
ensued,  we  had  clear  evidence  that  there  lurked  a  temper  some- 
where, which  ought  not  to  be  fostered  by  the  laws.  No  ill 
consequences  whatever  could  be  attributed  to  the  act  itself.      We 


388  ENGLISH  PROSE 


knew  beforehand,  or  we  were  poorly  instructed,  that  toleration 
is  odious  to  the  intolerant,  freedom  to  oppressors,  property  to 
robbers,  and  all  kinds  and  degrees  of  prosperity  to  the  envious. 
We  knew  that  all  these  kinds  of  men  would  gladly  gratify  their  evil 
dispositions  under  the  sanction  of  law  and  religion,  if  they  could  : 
if  they  could  not,  yet,  to  make  way  to  their  objects,  they  would 
do  their  utmost  to  subvert  all  religion  and  all  law.  This  we 
certainly  knew.  But  knowing  this,  is  there  any  reason,  because 
thieves  break  in  and  steal,  and  thus  bring  detriment  to  you,  and 
draw  ruin  on  themselves,  that  I  am  to  be  sorry  that  you  are  in 
possession  of  shops,  and  of  warehouses,  and  of  wholesome  laws 
to  protect  them  ?  Are  you  to  build  no  houses  because  desperate 
men  may  pull  them  down  upon  their  own  heads  ?  Or,  if  a 
malignant  wretch  will  cut  his  own  throat  because  he  sees  you 
give  alms  to  the  necessitous  and  deserving,  shall  his  destruction 
be  attributed  to  your  charity,  and  not  to  his  own  deplorable 
madness  ?  If  we  repent  of  our  good  actions,  what,  I  pray  you, 
is  left  for  our  faults  and  follies  ?  It  is  not  the  beneficence  of  the 
laws,  it  is  the  unnatural  temper  which  beneficence  can  fret  and 
sour,  that  is  to  be  lamented.  It  is  this  temper  which,  by  all 
rational  means,  ought  to  be  sweetened  and  corrected.  If  fro  ward 
men  should  refuse  this  cure,  can  they  vitiate  anything  but 
themselves  ?  Does  evil  so  react  upon  good,  as  not  only  to 
retard  its  motion,  but  to  change  its  nature  ?  If  it  can  so  operate, 
then  good  men  will  always  be  in  the  power  of  the  bad  ;  and 
virtue  by  a  dreadful  reverse  of  order  must  lie  under  perpetual 
subjection  and  bondage  to  vice. 

As  to  the  opinion  of  the  people,  which  some  think,  in  such 
cases,  to  be  implicitly  obeyed  ;  nearly  two  years'  tranquillity, 
which  followed  the  act,  and  its  instant  imitation  in  Ireland, 
proved  abundantly  that  the  late  horrible  spirit  was,  in  a  great 
measure,  the  effect  of  insidious  art,  and  perverse  industry,  and 
gross  misrepresentation.  But  suppose  that  the  dislike  had  been 
much  more  deliberate,  and  much  more  general  than  I  am 
persuaded  it  was. — When  we  know,  that  the  opinions  of  even  the 
greatest  multitudes  are  the  standard  of  rectitude,  I  shall  think 
myself  to  make  those  opinions  the  masters  of  my  conscience. 
But  if  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Omnipotence  itself  is  competent 
to  alter  the  essential  constitution  of  right  and  wrong,  sure  I  am, 
that  such  things  as  they  and  I  are  possessed  of  no  such  power. 
No  man  carries  further  than    I   do  the  policy  of  making  govern- 


EDMUND  BURKE  389 


ment  pleasing  to  the  people.  But  the  widest  range  of  this  politic 
complaisance  is  confined  within  the  limits  of  justice.  I  would  not 
only  consult  the  interest  of  the  people,  but  I  would  cheerfully 
gratify  their  humours.  We  are  all  a  sort  of  children  that  must 
be  soothed  and  managed.  I  think  I  am  not  austere  or  formal  in 
my  nature.  I  would  bear,  I  would  even  myself  play  my  part  in, 
any  innocent  buffooneries  to  divert  them.  But  I  never  will  act 
the  tyrant  for  their  amusement.  If  they  will  mix  malice  in  their 
sports,  I  shall  ne\er  consent  to  throw  them  any  living,  sentient 
creature  whatsoever,  no,  not  so  much  as  a  kitling,  to  torment. 

"  But  if  I  profess  all  this  impolitic  stubbornness  I  may  chance 
never  to  be  elected  into  parliament."  It  is  certainly  not  pleasing 
to  be  put  out  of  the  public  service.  But  I  wish  to  be  a  member 
of  parliament  to  have  my  share  of  doing  good  and  resisting  evil. 
It  would  therefore  be  absurd  to  renounce  my  objects  in  order  to 
obtain  my  seat.  I  deceive  myself  indeed  most  grossly,  if  I  had 
not  much  rather  pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  hidden  in  the 
recesses  of  the  deepest  obscurity,  feeding  my  mind  even  with  the 
visions  and  imaginations  of  such  things,  than  to  be  placed  on  the 
most  splendid  throne  of  the  universe,  tantalized  with  a  denial  of 
the  practice  of  all  which  can  make  the  greatest  situation  any 
other  than  the  greatest  curse.  Gentlemen,  I  have  had  my  day. 
I  can  never  sufficiently  express  my  gratitude  to  you  for  having 
set  me  in  a  place,  wherein  I  could  lend  the  slightest  help  to  great 
and  laudable  designs.  If  I  have  had  my  share  in  any  measure 
giving  quiet  to  private  property  and  private  conscience  ;  if  by  my 
vote  I  have  aided  in  securing  to  families  the  best  possession, 
peace  ;  if  I  have  joined  in  reconciling  kings  to  their  subjects,  and 
subjects  to  their  prince  ;  if  I  have  assisted  to  loosen  the  foreign 
holdings  of  the  citizen,  and  taught  him  to  look  for  his  protection 
to  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  for  his  comfort  to  the  goodwill  of 
his  countiymen  ; — if  I  have  thus  taken  my  part  with  the  best  of 
men  in  the  best  of  their  actions,  I  can  shut  the  book  ; — I  might 
wish  to  read  a  page  or  two  more,  but  this  is  enough  for  my 
measure.      I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

And  now,  gentlemen,  on  this  serious  day,  when  I  come  as  it 
were,  to  make  up  my  account  with  you,  let  me  take  to  myself 
some  degree  of  honest  pride  on  the  nature  of  the  charges  that 
are  against  me.  I  do  not  here  stand  before  you  accused  of 
venality,  or  of  neglect  of  duty.  It  is  not  said  that  in  the  long 
period  of  my  service,  I   have  in  a  single  instance  sacrificed  the 


390  ENGLISH  PROSE 


slightest  of  your  interests  to  my  ambition,  or  to  my  fortune.  It 
is  not  alleged,  that  to  gratify  any  anger  or  revenge  of  my  own,  or 
of  my  party,  I  have  had  a  share  in  wronging  or  oppressing  any 
description  of  men  or  any  one  man  in  any  description.  No  ! 
the  charges  against  me  are  all  of  one  kind,  that  I  have  pushed 
the  principles  of  general  justice  and  benevolence  too  far  ;  further 
than  a  cautious  policy  would  warrant  ;  and  further  than  the 
opinions  of  many  would  go  along  with  me.  In  every  accident 
which  may  happen  through  life,  in  pain,  in  sorrow,  in  depression, 
and  distress  —  I  will  call  to  mind  this  accusation  and  be 
comforted. 

(From  Speech  at  Bristol prci'ious  to  ike  Election,  1780.) 


LIBERTY 

I  FLATTER  myself  that  I  love  a  manly,  moral,  regulated  liberty  as 
well  as  any  gentleman  of  that  society,  be  who  he  will ;  and 
perhaps  I  have  given  as  good  proofs  of  my  attachment  to  that 
cause,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  public  conduct.  I  think  I  envy 
liberty  as  little  as  they  do,  to  any  other  nation.  But  I  cannot 
stand  forward,  and  give  praise  or  blame  to  anything  which  relates 
to  human  actions  and  human  concerns,  on  a  simple  view  of  the 
object  as  it  stands  stripped  of  every  relation,  in  all  the  nakedness 
and  solitude  of  metaphysical  abstraction.  Circumstances  (which 
with  some  gentlemen  pass  for  nothing)  give  in  reality  to  every 
political  principle  its  distinguishing  colour,  and  discriminating 
effect.  The  circumstances  are  what  render  every  civil  and 
political  scheme  beneficial  or  noxious  to  mankind.  Abstractedly 
speaking",  government,  as  well  as  liberty,  is  good  ;  yet  could  I,  in 
common  sense,  ten  years  ago,  have  felicitated  France  on  her 
enjoyment  of  a  government  (for  she  then  had  a  government) 
without  inquiry  what  the  nature  of  that  government  was,  or  how 
it  was  administered  ?  Can  I  now  congratulate  the  same  nation 
upon  its  freedom  ?  Is  it  because  liberty  in  the  abstract  may  be 
classed  amongst  the  blessings  of  mankind,  that  I  am  seriously  to 
felicitate  a  madman,  who  has  escaped  from  the  protecting  restraint 
and  wholesome  darkness  of  his  cell,  on  his  restoration  to  the 
enjoyment  of  light  and  liberty  ?  Am  I  to  congratulate  an 
highwayman  and  murderer,  who  has  broke  prison,  on  the  recovery 
of  his  natural  rights  ?     This  would  be  to  act  over  again  the  scene 


EDMUND  BURKE  391 


of  the   criminals    condemned    to  the   galleys,  and    their    heroic 
deliverer,  the  metaphysic  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Countenance. 

When  I  see  the  spirit  of  liberty  in  action,  I  see  a  strong 
principle  at  work  ;  and  this,  for  a  while,  is  all  I  can  possibly  know 
of  it.  The  wild  gas,  the  fixed  air,  is  plainly  broke  loose  ;  but  we 
ought  to  suspend  our  judgment  until  the  first  effervescence  is  a 
little  subsided,  till  the  liquor  is  cleared,  and  until  we  see  something 
deeper  than  the  agitation  of  a  troubled  and  frothy  surface.  1 
must  be  tolerably  sure,  before  I  venture  publicly  to  congratulate 
men  upon  a  blessing",  that  they  have  really  received  one.  Flattery 
corrupts  both  the  receiver  and  the  giver ;  and  adulation  is  not  of 
more  service  to  the  people  than  to  kings.  I  should  therefore 
suspend  my  congratulations  on  the  new  liberty  of  France,  until  I 
was  informed  how  it  had  been  combined  with  government  ;  with 
public  force  ;  with  the  discipline  and  obedience  of  armies  ;  with 
the  collection  of  an  effective  and  well-distributed  revenue  ;  with 
morality  and  religion  ;  with  the  solidity  of  property  ;  with  peace 
and  order  ;  with  civil  and  social  manners.  All  these  (in  their 
way)  are  good  things  too  ;  and,  without  them,  liberty  is  not  a 
benefit  whilst  it  lasts,  and  is  not  likely  to  continue  long.  The 
effect  of  liberty  to  individuals  is,  that  they  may  do  what  they 
please  ;  we  ought  to  see  what  it  will  please  them  to  do,  before  we 
risk  congratulations,  which  may  be  soon  turned  into  complaints. 
Prudence  would  dictate  this  in  the  case  of  separate  insulated 
private  men  ;  but  liberty,  when  men  act  in  bodies,  is  power. 
Considerate  people,  before  they  declare  themselves,  will  observe 
the  use  which  is  made  of  power  ;  and  particularly  of  so  trying  a 
thing  as  new  power  in  new  persons,  of  whose  principles,  tempers, 
and  dispositions,  they  have  little  or  no  experience,  and  in  situa- 
tions where  those  who  appear  the  most  stirring  in  the  scene  may 
possibly  not  be  the  real  movers. 

(From  Rcfleciions  on  the  Revolution  iji  France.) 

THE    MISTAKEN    METHODS,  AND    THE   RESULTING 
CRIMES   OF  THE   FRENCH    REVOLUTION 

You  will  observe,  that  from  Magna  Charta  to  the  Declaration  of 
Right,  it  has  been  the  uniform  policy  of  our  constitution  to  claim 
and  assert  our  liberties,  as  an  entailed  inheritance  derived  to  us 
from  our  forefathers,  and  to  be  transmitted  to  our  posterity,  as  an 


392  ENGLISH  PROSE 


estate  specially  belonging  to  the  people  of  this  kingdom  without 
any  reference  whatever  to  any  other  more  general  or  prior  right. 
By  this  means  our  constitution  preserves  an  unity  in  so  great  a 
diversity  of  its  parts.  We  have  an  inheritable  crown  ;  an  inherit- 
able peerage  ;  and  an  house  of  commons  and  a  people  inheriting 
privileges,  franchises,  and  liberties,  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors. 
This  policy  appears  to  me  to  be  the  result  of  profound 
reflection  ;  or  rather  the  happy  effect  of  following  nature,  which 
is  wisdom  without  reflection,  and  above  it.  A  spirit  of  innovation 
is  generally  the  result  of  a  selfish  temper  and  confined  views. 
People  will  not  look  forward  to  posterity  who  never  look  back  to 
their  ancestors.  Besides,  the  people  of  England  well  know,  that 
the  idea  of  inheritance  furnishes  a  sure  principle  of  conservation, 
and  a  sure  principle  of  transmission  ;  without  at  all  excluding  a 
principle  of  government.  It  leaves  acquisition  free  ;  but  it  secures 
what  it  acquires.  Whatever  advantages  are  obtained  by  a  state 
proceeding  on  these  maxims,  are  locked  fast  as  in  a  sort  of  family 
settlement ;  grasped  as  in  a  kind  of  mortmain  for  ever.  By  a 
constitutional  policy,  working  after  the  pattern  of  nature,  we 
receive,  we  hold,  we  transmit  our  government  and  our  privileges, 
in  the  same  manner  in  which  we  enjoy  and  transmit  our  property 
and  our  lives.  The  institutions  of  policy,  the  goods  of  fortune, 
the  gifts  of  Providence,  are  handed  down,  to  us  and  from  us,  in 
the  same  course  and  order.  Our  political  system  is  placed  in  a 
just  correspondence  and  symmetry  with  the  order  of  the  world, 
and  with  the  mode  of  existence  decreed  to  a  permanent  body 
composed  of  transitory  parts  ;  wherein,  by  the  disposition  of  a 
stupendous  wisdom,  moulding  together  the  great  mysterious 
incorporation  of  the  human  race,  the  whole,  at  one  time  is  never 
old,  or  middle-aged,  or  young,  but  in  a  condition  of  unchangeable 
constancy,  moves  on  through  the  varied  tenor  of  perpetual  decay, 
fall,  renovation,  and  progression.  Thus  by  preserving  the 
method  of  nature  in  the  conduct  of  the  state,  in  what  we  improve 
we  are  never  wholly  new  ;  in  what  we  retain  we  are  never  wholly 
obsolete.  By  adhering  in  this  manner  and  on  those  principles  to 
our  forefathers,  we  are  guided  not  by  the  superstition  of 
antiquarians,  but  by  the  spirit  of  philosophic  analogy.  In  this 
choice  of  inheritance  we  have  given  to  our  frame  of  polity  the 
image  of  a  relation  in  blood  ;  binding  up  the  constitution  of  our 
country  with  our  dearest  domestic  ties  ;  adopting  our  fundamental 
laws  into  the  bosom  of  our  family  affections  ;  keeping  inseparable, 


EDMUND  BURKE  39; 


and  cherishing  with  the  warmth  of  all  their  combined  and 
mutually  reflected  charities,  our  state,  our  hearths,  our  sepulchres, 
and  our  altars. 

Through  the  same  plan  of  a  conformity  to  nature  in  our 
artificial  institutions,  and  by  calling  in  the  aid  of  her  unerring  and 
powerful  instincts,  to  fortify  the  fallible  and  feeble  contrivances 
of  our  reason,  we  have  derived  several  other,  and  those  no  small 
benefits,  from  considering  our  liberties  in  the  light  of  an  inherit- 
ance. Always  acting  as  if  in  the  presence  of  canonized  fore- 
fathers, the  spirit  of  freedom,  leading  in  itself  to  misrule  and 
excess,  is  tempered  with  an  awful  gravity.  This  idea  of  a  liberal 
descent  inspires  us  with  a  sense  of  habitual  native  dignity,  which 
prevents  that  upstart  insolence  almost  inevitably  adhering  to  and 
disgracing  those  who  are  the  first  acquirers  of  any  distinction. 
By  this  means  our  liberty  becomes  a  noble  freedom.  It  carries 
an  imposing  and  majestic  aspect.  It  has  a  pedigree  and 
illustrating  ancestors.  It  has  its  bearings  and  its  ensigns  armorial. 
It  has  its  galleries  of  portraits  ;  its  monumental  inscriptions  ;  its 
records,  evidences,  and  titles.  We  procure  reverence  to  our 
civil  institutions  on  the  principle  upon  which  nature  teaches  us  to 
revere  individual  men  ;  on  account  of  their  age  ;  and  on  account 
of  those  from  whom  they  are  descended.  All  your  sophisters 
cannot  produce  anything  better  adapted  to  preserve  a  rational  and 
manly  freedom  than  the  course  that  we  have  pursued,  who  have 
chosen  our  nature  rather  than  our  speculations,  our  breasts  rather 
than  our  inventions,  for  the  great  conservatories  and  magazines  of 
our  rights  and  privileges. 

You  might,  if  you  pleased  have  profited  of  our  example,  and 
have  given  to  your  recovered  freedom  a  correspondent  dignity. 
Your  privileges,  though  discontinued,  were  not  lost  to  memory. 
Your  constitution,  it  is  true,  whilst  you  were  out  of  possession, 
suffered  waste  and  dilapidation  ;  but  you  possessed  in  some 
parts  the  walls,  and  in  all  the  foundations,  of  a  noble  and 
venerable  castle.  You  might  have  repaired  those  walls  ;  you 
might  have  built  on  those  old  foundations.  Your  constitution 
was  suspended  before  it  was  perfected  ;  but  you  had  the  elements 
of  a  constitution  very  nearly  as  good  as  could  be  wished.  In 
your  old  states  you  possessed  that  variety  of  parts  corresponding 
with  the  various  descriptions  of  which  your  community  was 
happily  composed  ;  you  had  all  that  combination,  and  all  that 
opposition  of  interests,  you  had   that  action  and  counteraction, 


394  ENGLISH  PROSE 


which,  in  the  natural  and  in  the  political  world,  from  the 
reciprocal  struggle  of  discordant  powers  draws  out  the  harmony 
of  the  universe.  These  opposed  and  conflicting  interests,  which 
you  considered  as  so  great  a  blemish  in  your  old  and  in  our 
present  constitution,  interpose  a  salutary  check  to  all  precipitate 
resolutions ;  they  render  deliberation  a  matter  not  of  choice, 
but  of  necessity  ;  they  make  all  change  a  subject  of  compromise, 
which  naturally  begets  moderation  ;  they  produce  temperaments 
preventing  the  sore  evil  of  harsh,  crude,  unqualified  refomiations  ; 
and  rendering  all  the  headlong  exertions  of  arbitrary  power,  in 
the  i&w  or  in  the  many,  for  ever  impracticable.  Through  that 
diversity  of  members  and  interests,  general  liberty  had  as 
many  securities  as  there  were  separate  views  in  the  several 
orders  ;  whilst  by  pressing  down  the  whole  by  the  weight  of 
a  real  monarchy,  the  separate  parts  would  have  been  prevented 
from  warping  and  starting  from  their  allotted  places. 

You  had  all  these  advantages  in  your  ancient  states ;  but 
you  chose  to  act  as  if  you  had  never  been  moulded  into  civil 
society,  and  had  everything  to  begin  anew.  You  began  ill, 
because  you  began  by  despising  everything  that  belonged  to 
you.  You  set  up  your  trade  without  a  capital.  If  the  last 
generations  of  your  country  appeared  without  much  lustre  in 
your  eyes,  you  might  have  passed  them  by,  and  derived  your 
claims  from  a  more  early  race  of  ancestors.  Under  a  pious 
predilection  for  those  ancestors,  your  imaginations  would  have 
realised  in  them  a  standard  of  virtue  and  wisdom,  beyond  the 
vulgar  practice  of  the  hour ;  and  you  have  risen  with  the 
example  to  whose  imitation  you  aspired.  Respecting  your 
forefathers,  you  would  have  been  taught  to  respect  yourselves. 
You  would  not  have  chosen  to  consider  the  French  as  a  people 
of  yesterday,  as  a  nation  of  low-born  servile  wretches  until  the 
emancipating  year  of  1789.  In  order  to  furnish,  at  the 
expense  of  your  honour,  an  excuse  to  your  apologists  here  for 
several  enormities  of  yours,  you  would  not  have  been  content 
to  be  represented  as  a  gang  of  Maroon  slaves,  suddenly  broke 
loose  from  the  house  of  bondage,  and  therefore  to  be  pardoned 
for  your  abuse  of  the  liberty  to  which  you  were  not  accustomed, 
and  ill  fitted.  Would  it  not,  my  worthy  friend,  have  been 
wiser  to  have  you  thought,  what  I,  for  one,  always  thought  you, 
a  generous  and  gallant  nation,  long  misled  to  your  disadvantage 
l)y  your  high   and   romantic   sentiments   of  fidelity,    honour,    and 


EDMUND  BURKE  395 


loyalty ;  that  events  had  been  unfavourable  to  you,  but  that 
you  were  not  enslaved  through  any  illiberal  or  servile  disposition  ; 
that  in  your  most  devoted  submission  you  were  actuated  by 
a  principle  of  public  spirit,  and  that  it  was  your  country  you 
worshipped,  in  the  person  of  your  king  ?  Had  you  made  it  to 
be  understood,  that  in  the  delusion  of  this  amiable  error  you 
had  g^one  further  than  your  wise  ancestors  ;  that  you  were 
resolved  to  resume  your  ancient  privileges,  whilst  you  preserved 
the  spirit  of  your  ancient  and  your  recent  loyalty  and  honour  ; 
or,  if  diffident  of  yourselves,  and  not  clearly  discerning  the 
almost  obliterated  constitution  of  your  ancestors,  you  had  looked 
to  your  neighbours  in  this  land,  who  had  kept  alive  the  ancient 
principles  and  models  of  the  old  common  law  of  Europe 
meliorated  and  adapted  to  its  present  state — by  following  wise 
examples  you  would  have  given  new  examples  of  wisdom  to 
the  world.  You  would  have  rendered  the  cause  of  liberty 
venerable  in  the  eyes  of  every  worthy  mind  in  every  nation. 
You  would  have  shamed  despotism  from  the  earth,  by  showing 
that  freedom  was  not  only  reconcileable  but  as,  when  well 
disciplined  it  is,  auxiliary  to  law.  You  would  have  had 
an  unoppressive  but  a  productive  revenue.  You  would  have 
had  a  flourishing  commerce  to  feed  it.  You  would  have  had  a 
free  constitution ;  a  potent  monarchy ;  a  disciplined  army ; 
a  reformed  and  venerated  clergy ;  a  mitigated  but  spirited 
nobility,  to  lead  your  virtue,  not  to  overlay  it  ;  you  would  have 
had  a  liberal  order  of  commons,  to  emulate  and  to  recruit  that 
nobility  ;  you  would  have  had  a  protected,  satisfied,  laborious, 
and  obedient  people,  taught  to  seek  and  to  recognise  the 
happiness  that  is  to  be  found  by  virtue  in  all  conditions  ;  in 
which  consists  the  true  moral  equality  of  mankind,  and  not  in 
that  monstrous  fiction,  which,  by  inspiring  false  ideas  and 
vain  expectations  into  men  destined  to  travel  in  the  obscure 
walk  of  laborious  life,  serves  only  to  aggravate  and  embitter 
that  real  inequality,  which  it  never  can  remove  ;  and  which  the 
order  of  civil  life  establishes  as  much  for  the  benefit  of  those 
whom  it  must  leave  in  a  humble  state,  as  those  whom  it  is 
able  to  exalt  to  a  condition  more  splendid,  but  not  more  happy. 
You  had  a  smooth  and  easy  career  of  felicity  and  glory  laid 
open  to  you,  beyond  anything  recorded  in  the  history  of  the 
world  ;  but  you  have  shown  that  difficulty  is  good  for  man. 

Compute  your  gains  :  see  what   is  got  by  those  extravagant 


396  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  presumptuous  speculations  which  have  taught  your  leaders 
to  despise  all  their  predecessors,  and  all  their  contemporaries, 
and  even  to  despise  themselves,  until  the  moment  in  which 
they  became  truly  despicable.  By  following  those  false  lights, 
France  has  bought  undisguised  calamities  at  a  higher  price 
than  any  nation  has  purchased  the  most  unequivocal  blessings. 
France  has  bought  poverty  by  crime  !  France  has  not 
sacrificed  her  virtue  to  her  interest  ;  but  she  has  abandoned 
her  interest,  that  she  might  prostitute  her  virtue.  All  other 
nations  have  begun  the  fabric  of  a  new  government,  or  the 
reformation  of  an  old,  by  establishing  originally,  or  by  enforcing 
with  greater  exactness,  some  rites  or  other  of  religion.  All  other 
people  have  laid  the  foundations  of  civil  freedom  in  severer 
manners,  and  a  system  of  a  more  austere  and  masculine 
morality.  France  when  she  let  loose  the  reins  of  regal  authority, 
doubled  the  licence  of  a  ferocious  dissoluteness  in  manners, 
and  of  an  insolent  irreligion  in  opinions  and  practices ;  and 
has  extended  through  all  ranks  of  life,  as  if  she  were  com- 
municating some  privilege,  or  laying  open  some  secluded  benefit, 
all  the  unhappy  corruptions  that  usually  were  the  disease  of 
wealth  and  power.  This  is  one  of  the  new  principles  of  equality 
in  France. 

France,  by  the  perfidy  of  her  leaders,  has  utterly  disgraced 
the  tone  of  lenient  council  in  the  cabinets  of  princes,  and  disarmed 
it  of  its  most  potent  topics.  She  has  sanctified  the  dark  suspicious 
maxims  of  tyrannous  distrust ;  and  taught  kings  to  tremble  at 
(what  will  hereafter  be  called)  the  delusive  plausibilities  of  moral 
politicians.  Sovereigns  will  consider  those  who  advise  them  to 
place  an  unlimited  confidence  in  their  people  as  subverters  of 
their  thrones  ;  as  traitors  who  aim  at  their  destruction,  by 
leading  their  easy  good  nature,  under  specious  pretences,  to 
admit  combinations  of  bold  and  faithless  men  into  a  participation 
of  their  power.  This  alone,  if  there  were  nothing  else,  is  an 
irreparable  calamity  to  you  and  to  mankind.  Remember  that 
your  parliament  of  Paris  told  your  king,  that  in  calling  the  states 
together,  he  had  nothing  to  fear  but  the  prodigal  excess  of  their 
zeal  in  providing  for  the  support  of  the  throne.  It  is  right  that 
these  men  should  hide  their  heads.  It  is  right  that  they  should 
bear  their  part  in  the  ruin  which  their  counsel  has  brought  on 
their  sovereign  and  their  country.  Such  sanguine  declarations 
tend   to  lull  authority  asleep  ;   to  encourage  it   rashly  to  engage 


EDMUND  BURKE  397 


in  perilous  adventures  of  untried  policy  ;  to  neglect  those  pro- 
visions, preparations,  and  precautions,  which  distinguish  benevo- 
lence from  imbecility  :  and  without  which  no  man  can  answer  for 
the  salutary  effect  of  any  abstract  plan  of  government  or  of 
freedom.  For  want  of  these,  they  have  seen  the  medicine  of  the 
state  corrupted  into  its  poison.  They  have  seen  the  French  rebel 
against  a  mild  and  lawful  monarch,  with  more  fury,  outrage,  and 
insult,  than  ever  any  people  has  been  known  to  rise  against  the 
most  illegal  usurper,  or  the  most  sanguinary  tyrant.  Their 
resistance  was  made  to  concession  ;  their  revolt  was  from  protec- 
tion ;  their  blow  was  aimed  at  a  hand  holding  out  graces,  favours, 
and  immunities. 

This  was  unnatural.  The  rest  is  in  order.  They  have 
found  their  punishment  in  their  success.  Laws  overturned  ; 
tribunals  subverted  ;  industry  without  vigour  ;  commerce  expiring  ; 
the  revenue  unpaid,  yet  the  people  impoverished ;  a  church 
pillaged,  and  a  state  not  relieved  ;  civil  and  military  anarchy 
made  the  constitution  of  the  kingdom  ;  everything  human  and 
divine  sacrificed  to  the  idol  of  public  credit,  and  national  bank- 
ruptcy the  consequence  ;  and  to  crown  all,  the  paper  securities  of 
new,  precarious,  tottering  power,  the  discredited  paper  securities 
of  impoverished  fraud,  and  beggared  rapine,  held  out  as  a 
currency  for  the  support  of  an  empire,  in  lieu  of  the  two  great 
recognised  species  that  represent  the  lasting  conventional  credit 
of  mankind,  which  disappeared  and  hid  themselves  in  the  earth 
from  whence  they  came,  when  the  principle  of  property,  whose 
creatures  and  representatives  they  are,  was  systematically 
subverted. 

Were  all  these  dreadful  things  necessary  ?  Were  they  the 
inevitable  results  of  the  desperate  struggle  of  determined  patriots, 
compelled  to  wade  through  blood  and  tumult,  to  the  cjuiet  shore 
of  a  tranquil  and  prosperous  liberty  ?  No  1  nothing  like  it.  The 
fresh  ruins  of  France,  which  shock  our  feelings  wherever  we  can 
turn  our  eyes,  are  not  the  devastation  of  civil  war  ;  they  are  the 
sad,  but  instructive,  monuments  of  rash  and  ignorant  counsel  in 
time  of  profound  peace.  They  are  the  display  of  inconsiderate 
and  presumptuous,  because  unresisted  and  irresistible,  authority. 

The  persons  who  have  thus  squandered  away  the  precious 
treasure  of  their  crimes,  the  persons  who  have  made  this  prodigal 
and  wild  waste  of  public  evils  (the  last  stake  reserved  for  the 
ultimate  ransom  of  the  state)  have  met  in  their  progress  with 


398  ENGLISH  PROSE 


little,  or  rather  with  no  opposition  at  all.  Their  whole  march 
was  more  like  a  triumphal  procession  than  the  progress  of  a  war. 
Their  pioneers  have  gone  before  them,  and  demolished  and  laid 
everything  level  at  their  feet.  Not  one  drop  of  their  blood  have 
they  shed  in  the  cause  of  the  country  they  have  ruined.  They 
have  made  no  sacrifices  to  their  projects  of  greater  consequence 
than  their  shoe-buckles,  whilst  they  were  imprisoning  their  king, 
murdering  their  fellow  citizens,  and  bathing  in  tears,  and  plunging 
in  poverty  and  distress,  thousands  of  worthy  men  and  worthy 
families.  Their  cruelty  has  not  even  been  the  base  result  of  fear. 
It  has  been  the  effect  of  their  sense  of  perfect  safety,  in  author- 
izing treasons,  robberies,  rapes,  assassinations,  slaughters,  and 
burnings  throughout  their  harassed  land.  But  the  cause  of  all 
was  plain  from  the  beginning.  {Yrom  the  Same.) 


THE  RIGHTS  0¥  MAN 

Far  am  I  from  denying  in  theory  ;  full  as  far  is  my  heart  from 
withholding  in  practice  (if  I  were  of  power  to  give  or  to  withhold), 
the  real  rights  of  man.  In  denying  their  false  claims  of  right,  I 
do  not  mean  to  injure  those  which  are  real,  and  are  such  as  their 
pretended  rights  would  totally  destroy.  If  civil  society  be  made 
for  the  advantage  of  man,  all  the  advantages  for  which  it  is  made 
become  his  right.  It  is  an  institution  of  beneficence ;  and  law 
itself  is  only  beneficence  acting  by  a  rule.  Men  have  a  right  to 
live  by  that  rule  ;  they  have  a  right  to  do  justice  ;  as  between  their 
fellows,  whether  their  fellows  are  in  politic  function  or  in  ordinary 
occupation.  They  have  a  right  to  the  fruits  of  their  industry  ; 
and  to  the  means  of  making  their  industry  fruitful.  They  have  a 
right  to  the  acquisitions  of  their  parents  ;  to  the  nourishment  and 
improvement  of  their  offspring ;  to  instruction  in  life,  and  to 
consolation  in  death.  Whatever  each  man  can  separately  do, 
without  trespassing  upon  others,  he  has  a  right  to  do  for  himself ; 
and  he  has  a  right  to  a  fair  portion  of  all  which  society  ;  with  all 
its  combinations  of  skill  and  force,  can  do  in  his  favour.  In  this 
partnership  all  men  have  equal  rights  ;  but  not  to  equal  things. 
He  that  has  but  five  shillings  in  the  partnership,  has  as  good  a 
right  to  it,  as  he  that  has  five  hundred  pounds  has  to  his  larger 


EDMUND  BURKE  399 


proportion.  But  he  has  not  a  right  to  an  equal  dividend  in  the 
product  of  the  joint  stock  ;  and  as  to  the  share  of  power,  authority, 
and  direction  which  each  individual  ought  to  have  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  state,  that  I  must  deny  to  be  amongst  the  direct 
original  rights  of  man  in  civil  society  ;  for  I  have  in  my  con- 
templation the  civil  social  man,  and  no  other.  It  is  a  thing  to  be 
settled  by  convention. 

If  civil  society  be  the  offspring  of  convention,  that  convention 
must  be  its  law.  That  convention  must  limit  and  modify  all  the 
descriptions  of  constitution  which  are  formed  under  it.  Every 
sort  of  legislative,  judicial,  or  executory  power  are  its  creatures. 
They  can  have  no  being  in  any  other  state  of  things  ;  and  how 
can  any  man  claim,  under  the  conventions  of  civil  society,  rights 
which  do  not  so  much  as  suppose  its  existence  ?  Rights  which 
are  absolutely  repugnant  to  it  ?  One  of  the  first  motives  to  civil 
society,  and  which  becomes  one  of  its  fundamental  rules,  is  that 
no  man  should  be  judge  in  his  own  cause.  By  this  each  person 
has  at  once  divested  himself  of  the  first  fundamental  right  of 
uncovenanted  man,  that  is,  to  judge  for  himself,  and  to  assert  his 
own  cause.  He  abdicates  all  right  to  be  his  own  governor.  He 
inclusively,  in  a  great  measure,  abandons  the  right  of  self-defence, 
the  first  law  of  nature.  Man  cannot  enjoy  the  rights  of  an  uncivil 
and  of  a  civil  state  together.  That  he  may  obtain  justice,  he 
gives  up  his  right  of  determining  what  it  is  in  points  the  most 
essential  to  him.  That  he  may  secure  some  liberty,  he  makes  a 
surrender  in  trust  of  the  whole  of  it. 

Government  is  not  made  in  virtue  of  natural  rights,  which 
may  and  do  exist  in  total  independence  of  it  ;  and  exist  in  much 
greater  clearness,  and  in  a  much  greater  degree  of  abstract 
perfection  ;  but  their  abstract  perfection  is  their  practical  defect. 
By  having  a  right  to  everything,  they  want  everything. 
Government  is  a  contrivance  of  human  wisdom  to  provide  for 
human  wants.  Men  have  a  right  that  these  wants  should  be 
provided  for  by  this  wisdom.  Among  these  wants  is  to  be 
reckoned  the  want,  out  of  civil  society,  of  a  sufficient  restraint 
upon  their  passions.  Society  requires  not  only  that  the  passions 
of  individuals  should  be  subjected,  but  that  even  in  the  mass  and 
body  as  well  as  in  the  individuals,  the  inclinations  of  men  should 
frequently  be  thwarted,  their  will  controlled,  and  their  passions 
brought  into  subjection.  This  can  only  be  done  by  a  power  out 
of  themselves  ;  and  not,  in  the  exercise  of  its  function,  subject  to 


400  ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  will  and  to  those  passions  which  it  is  its  office  to  bridle  and 
subdue.  In  this  sense  the  restraints  on  men,  as  well  as  their 
liberties,  are  to  be  reckoned  among  their  rights.  But  as  the 
liberties  and  the  restrictions  vary  with  times  and  circumstances, 
and  admit  of  infinite  modifications,  they  cannot  be  settled  upon 
any  abstract  rule  ;  and  nothing  is  so  foolish  as  to  discuss  them 
upon  that  principle. 

The  moment  you  abate  anything  from  the  full  rights  of  men, 
each  to  govern  himself,  and  suffer  any  artificial  positive  limitation 
upon  those  rights,  from  that  moment  the  whole  organization  of 
government  becomes  a  consideration  of  convenience.  This  it  is 
which  makes  the  constitution  of  a  state,  and  the  due  distribution 
of  its  powers,  a  matter  of  the  most  delicate  and  complicated  skill. 
It  rec[uires  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  human 
necessities,  and  of  the  things  which  facilitate  or  obstruct  the 
various  ends  which  are  to  be  pursued  by  the  mechanism  of  civil 
institutions.  The  state  is  to  have  recruits  to  its  strength,  and 
remedies  to  its  distempers.  What  is  the  use  of  discussing  a 
man's  abstract  right  to  food  or  to  medicine  ?  The  question  is 
upon  the  method  of  procuring  and  administering  them.  In  that 
deliberation  I  shall  always  advise  to  call  in  the  aid  of  the  farmer 
and  the  physician,  rather  than  the  professor  of  metaphysics. 

The  science  of  constructing  a  commonwealth,  or  renovating  it, 
or  reforming  it,  is  like  every  other  experimental  science,  not  to 
be  taught  a  priori.  Nor  is  it  a  short  experience  that  can  instruct 
us  in  that  practical  science  ;  because  the  real  effects  of  moral 
causes  are  not  always  immediate  ;  but  that  which  in  the  first 
instance  is  prejudicial  may  be  excellent  in  its  remoter  operation  ; 
and  its  excellence  may  arise  even  from  the  ill  effects  it  produces 
in  the  beginning.  The  reverse  also  happens  ;  and  very  plausible 
schemes,  with  very  pleasing  commencements,  have  often  shameful 
and  lamentable  conclusions.  In  states  there  are  often  some 
obscure  and  almost  latent  causes,  things  which  appear  at  first 
view  of  little  moment,  on  which  a  very  great  part  of  its  prosperity 
or  adversity  may  most  essentially  depend.  The  science  of 
government  being  therefore  so  practical  in  itself,  and  intended  for 
such  practical  purposes,  a  matter  which  requires  experience,  and 
even  more  experience  than  any  person  can  gain  in  his  whole  life, 
however  sagacious  and  observing  he  may  be,  it  is  with  infinite 
caution  that  any  man  ought  to  venture  upon  pulling  down  an 
edifice  which  has  answered  in  any  tolerable  degree  for  ages  the 


EDMUND  BURKE  401 


common  purposes  of  society,  or  on  building  it  up  again,  without 
having  models  and  patterns  of  approved  utility  before  his  eyes. 

These  metaphysic  rights  entering  into  common  life,  like  rays 
of  light  which  pierce  into  a  dense  medium,  are,  by  the  laws  of 
nature,  refracted  from  their  straight  line.  Indeed  in  the  gross 
and  complicated  mass  of  human  passions  and  concerns,  the 
primitive  rights  of  men  undergo  such  a  variety  of  refractions  and 
reflections,  that  it  becomes  absurd  to  talk  of  them  as  if  they 
continued  in  the  simplicity  of  their  original  direction.  The  nature 
of  man  is  intricate  ;  the  objects  of  society  are  of  the  greatest 
possible  complexity  ;  and  therefore  no  simple  disposition  or 
direction  of  power  can  be  suitable  either  to  man's  nature,  or  to 
the  quality  of  his  affairs.  When  1  hear  the  simplicity  of  con- 
trivance aimed  at  and  boasted  of  in  any  new  political  constitutions, 
I  am  at  no  loss  to  decide  that  the  artificers  are  grossly  ignorant 
of  their  trade,  or  totally  negligent  of  their  duty.  The  simple 
governments  are  fundamentally  defective,  to  say  no  worse  of 
them.  If  you  were  to  contemplate  society  in  but  one  point  of. 
view,  all  these  simple  modes  of  polity  are  infinitely  captivating. 
In  effect  each  would  answer  its  single  end  much  more  perfectly 
than  the  inore  complex  is  able  to  attain  all  its  complex  purposes. 
But  it  is  better  that  the  whole  should  be  imperfectly  and  anomal- 
ously answered,  than  that,  while  some  parts  are  provided  for 
with  great  exactness,  others  might  be  totally  neglected,  or  perhaps 
materially  injured,  by  the  over  care  of  a  favourite  member. 

The  pretended  rights  of  these  theorists  are  all  extremes  :  and  in 
proportion  as  they  are  metaphysically  true,  they  are  morally  and 
politically  false.  The  rights  of  men  are  in  a  sort  of  middle, 
incapable  of  definition,  but  not  impossible  to  be  discerned.  The 
rights  of  men  in  governments  are  their  advantages  ;  and  these 
are  often  in  balances  between  differences  of  good  ;  in  compromises, 
sometimes  between  good  and  evil,  and  sometimes  between  evil 
and  evil.  Political  reason  is  a  computing  principle  ;  adding, 
subtracting,  multiplying,  and  dividing,  morally  and  not  meta- 
physically or  mathematically,  true  moral  denominations. 

By  these  theorists  the  right  of  the  people  is  almost  always 
sophistically  confounded  with  their  power.  The  body  of  the 
community,  whenever  it  can  come  to  act,  can  meet  with  no 
effectual  resistance  ;  but  till  power  and  right  are  the  same,  the 
whole  body  of  them  has  no  right  inconsistent  with  virtue,  and 
the  first  of  all  virtues,  prudence.      Men  have  no  right  to  what  is 

VOL.   IV  .  2D 


402  ENGLISH  PROSE 


not  reasonable,  and  to  what  is  not  for  their  benefit  ;  for  though 
a  pleasant  writer  said,  Liceat  perire  poetis,  when  one  of  them, 
in  cold  blood,  is  said  to  have  leaped  into  the  flames  of  a  volcanic 
revolution,  Ardentcm  frigidus  ^-Etnam  insi/uif,  I  consider  such 
a  frolic  rather  as  an  unjustifiable  poetic  license  than  as  one  of  the 
franchises  of  Parnassus  ;  and  whether  he  were  poet,  or  divine, 
or  politician,  that  chose  to  exercise  this  kind  of  right,  I  think  that 
more  wise,  because  more  charitable  thoughts  would  urge  me 
rather  to  save  the  man,  than  to  preserve  his  brazen  slippers  as 
the  monuments  of  his  folly.  (From  the  Same.) 


THE  END  OF  THE  AGE  OF  CHIVALRY 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  Queen  of 
France,  then  the  Dauphiness,  at  Versailles  ;  and  surely  never  lighted 
on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  delightful 
vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering 
the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in  ;  glittering  like  the 
morning  star,  full  of  life,  and  splendour,  and  joy.  Oh  !  what  a 
revolution  !  and  what  a  heart  must  I  have  to  contemplate  without 
emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall  !  Little  did  I  dream  when 
she  added  titles  of  veneration  to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant, 
respectful  love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp 
antidote  against  disgrace  concealed  in  that  bosom  ;  little  did  I 
dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  upon 
her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men  of  honour  and 
of  cavaliers.  I  thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped 
from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened  her 
with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters, 
economists,  and  calculators,  has  succeeded  ;  and  the  glory  of 
Europe  is  extinguished  for  ever.  Never,  never  more,  shall  we 
behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  sub- 
mission, that  dignified  obedience,  that  subordination  of  the  heart, 
which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted 
freedom.  The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of 
nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiments  and  heroic  enterprise  is 
gone  !  It  is  gone  that  sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of 
honour,  which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired  courage 
whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled  whatever  it  touched, 


EDMUND  BURKE  403 


and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil,  by  losing  all  its 
grossness.  (From  the  Same.) 

THE  TENDENCY  OF  DEMOCRACY  TO  EXCESS  IN 
THE  EXERCISE,  AND    IN  THE   DESIRE,   OF   POWER 

I  DO  not  wish  to  enter  very  much  at  large  into  the  discussions 
which  diverge  and  ramify  in  all  ways  from  this  productive  subject. 
But  there  is  one  topic  upon  which  I  hope  I  shall  be  excused  in 
going  a  little  beyond  my  design.  The  factions,  now  so  busy 
amongst  us,  in  order  to  divest  men  of  all  love  of  their  country, 
and  to  remove  from  their  minds  all  duty  with  regard  to  the  state, 
endeavour  to  propagate  an  opinion,  that  the  people,  in  forming 
their  commonwealth,  have  by  no  means  parted  with  their  power 
over  it.  This  is  an  impregnable  citadel,  to  which  these  gentlemen 
retreat  whenever  they  are  pushed  by  the  battery  of  laws  and 
usages,  and  positive  conventions.  Indeed  it  is  such  and  of  so 
great  force  that  all  they  have  done,  in  defending  their  outworks, 
is  so  much  time  and  labour  thrown  away.  Discuss  any  of  their 
schemes  ;  their  answer  is — It  is  the  act  of  the  people,  and  that  is 
sufficient.  Are  we  to  deny  to  a  majority  of  the  people  the  right 
of  altering  even  the  whole  frame  of  their  society,  if  such  should 
be  their  pleasure  ?  They  may  change  it,  say  they,  from  a 
monarchy  to  a  republic  to-day,  and  to-morrow  back  again  from  a 
republic  to  a  monarchy  ;  and  so  backward  and  forward  as  often 
as  they  like.  They  are  masters  of  the  commonwealth  ;  because 
in  substance  they  are  themselves  the  commonwealth.  The 
French  Revolution,  say  they,  was  the  act  of  the  majority  of  the 
people  ;  and  if  the  majority  of  any  other  people,  the  people  of 
England  for  instance,  wish  to  make  the  same  change,  they  have 
the  same  right. 

Just  the  same  undoubtedly.  That  is,  none  at  all.  Neither 
the  few  nor  the  many  have  a  right  to  act  merely  by  their 
will,  in  any  matter  connected  with  duty,  trust,  engagement,  or 
obligation.  The  constitution  of  a  country  being  once  settled 
upon  some  compact,  tacit  or  expressed,  there  is  no  power  existing 
of  force  to  alter  it,  without  the  breach  of  the  covenant,  or  the 
consent  of  all  the  parties.  Such  is  the  nature  of  a  contract. 
And  the  votes  of  a  majority  of  the  people,  whatever  their  infamous 
flatterers  may  teach  in  order  to  corrupt  their  minds,  cannot   alter 


404  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  moral  any  more  than  they  can  alter  the  physical  essence  of 
things.  The  people  are  not  to  be  taught  to  think  lightly  of  their 
engagements  to  their  governors  ;  else  they  teach  governors  to 
think  lightly  of  their  engagements  towards  them.  In  that  kind 
of  game  in  the  end  the  people  are  sure  to  be  the  losers.  To 
flatter  them  into  a  contempt  of  faith,  truth,  and  justice,  is  to  ruin 
them  ;  for  in  these  virtues  consists  their  whole  safety.  To  flatter 
any  man,  or  any  part  of  mankind,  in  any  description,  by  asserting 
that  in  engagements  he  or  they  are  free  whilst  any  other  human 
creature  is  bound,  is  ultimately  to  vest  the  rule  of  morality  in  the 
pleasure  of  those  who  ought  to  be  rigidly  submitted  to  it ;  to 
sulDJect  the  sovereign  reason  of  the  world  to  the  caprices  of  weak 
and  giddy  men. 

But,  as  no  one  of  us  men  can  dispense  with  public  or  private 
faith,  or  with  any  other  tie  of  moral  obligation,  so  neither  can 
any  number  of  us.  The  number  engaged  in  crimes,  instead  of 
turning  them  into  laudable  acts,  only  augments  the  quantity  and 
intensity  of  the  guilt.  I  am  well  aware  that  men  love  to  hear  of 
their  power,  but  have  an  extreme  disrelish  to  be  told  of  their 
duty.  This  is  of  course  because  every  duty  is  a  limitation  of  some 
power.  Indeed  arbitrary  power  is  so  much  to  the  depraved  taste 
of  the  vulgar,  of  the  vulgar  of  every  description,  that  almost  all 
the  dissensions,  which  lacerate  the  commonwealth,  are  not 
concerning  the  manner  in  which  it  is  to  be  exercised,  but  con- 
cerning the  hands  in  which  it  is  to  be  placed.  Somewhere  they 
are  resolved  to  have  it.  Whether  they  desire  it  to  be  vested  in 
the  many  or  the  few,  depends  with  most  men  upon  the  chance 
which  they  imagine  they  themselves  may  have  of  partaking  in  the 
exercise  of  the  arbitrary  sway,  in  the  one  mode  or  the  other. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  teach  men  to  thirst  after  power.  But  it 
is  very  expedient  that  by  moral  instruction  they  should  be  taught, 
and  by  their  civil  constitutions  they  should  be  compelled,  to  put 
many  restrictions  upon  the  immoderate  exercise  of  it,  and  the 
inordinate  desire.  The  best  method  of  obtaining  these  two  great 
points  forms  the  important,  but  at  the  same  time  the  difficult, 
problem  to  the  tnie  statesman.  He  thinks  of  the  place  in  which 
political  power  is  to  be  lodged,  with  no  other  attention,  than  as  it 
may  render  the  more  or  less  practicable  its  salutary  restraint,  and 
its  prudent  direction.  For  this  reason  no  legislator,  at  any  period 
of  the  world,  has  willingly  placed  the  seat  of  active  power  in  the 
hands  of  the  multitude  ;  because  there  it  admits  of  no  control,  no 


EDMUND  BUKKE  405 


regulation,  no  steady  direction  whatsoever.  The  people  are  the 
natural  control  on  authority  ;  but  to  exercise  and  to  control 
together  is  contradictory  and  impossible. 

As  the  exorbitant  exercise  of  power  cannot,  under  popular 
sway,  be  effectually  restrained,  the  other  great  object  of  political 
arrangement,  the  means  of  abating  an  excessive  desire  of  it,  is  in 
such  a  state  still  worse  provided  for.  The  democratic  common- 
wealth is  the  foodful  nurse  of  ambition.  Under  the  other  fonns 
it  meets  with  many  restraints.  Whenever,  in  states  which  have 
a  democratic  basis,  the  legislators  have  endeavoured  to  restraints 
upon  ambition,  their  methods  were  as  violent,  as  in  the  end  they 
were  ineffectual :  as  violent  indeed  as  any  the  most  jealous 
despotism  could  invent.  The  ostracism  could  not  very  long  save 
itself,  and  much  less  the  state  which  it  was  meant  to  guard,  from 
the  attempts  of  ambition,  one  of  the  natural,  inbred,  incurable, 
distempers  of  a  powerful  democracy. 

(From  A71  Appeal fi-oiii  the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs.) 


THE   RIGHTS   OF  THE   MAJORITY 

In  a  state  of  rude  nature  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  people.  A 
number  of  men  in  themselves  have  no  collective  capacity.  The 
idea  of  a  people  is  the  idea  of  a  corporation.  It  is  wholly 
artificial  ;  and  made,  like  all  other  legal  fictions,  by  common 
agreement.  What  the  particular  nature  of  that  agreement  was, 
is  collected  from  the  form  into  which  the  particular  society  has 
been  cast.  Any  other  is  not  their  covenant.  When  men,  there- 
fore, break  up  the  original  compact  or  agreement  which  gives  its 
corporate  form  and  capacity  to  a  state,  they  are  no  longer  a 
people  ;  they  have  no  longer  a  corporate  existence  ;  they  have  no 
longer  a  legal,  coactive  force  to  bind  within,  nor  a  claim  to  be 
recognised  abroad.  They  are  a  number  of  vague,  loose  indi- 
viduals, and  nothing  more.  With  them  all  is  to  begin  again. 
Alas  !  they  little  know  how  many  a  weary  step  is  to  be  taken 
before  they  can  form  themselves  into  a  mass  which  has  a  true 
politic  personality. 

We  hear  much  from  men,  who  have  not  acquired  their  hardi- 
ness of  assertion  from  the  profundity  of  their  thinking,  about  the 
omnipotence  of  a  majority,  in  such  a  dissolution  of  an  ancient 
society  as  hath  taken    place  in  France.      But  amongst  men  so 


4o6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


disbanded,  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  majority  or  minority  ; 
or  power  in  any  one  person  to  bind  another.  The  power  of 
acting  by  a  majority,  which  the  gentlemen  theorists  seem  to 
assume  so  readily,  after  they  have  violated  the  contract  out  of 
which  it  has  arisen  (if  at  all  it  existed),  must  be  grounded  on  two 
assumptions ;  first,  that  of  an  incorporation  produced  by  un- 
animity ;  and  secondly,  an  unanimous  agreement,  that  the  act  of 
a  mere  majority  (say  of  one)  shall  pass  with  them  and  with  others 
as  the  act  of  the  whole. 

We  are  so  little  affected  by  things  which  are  habitual,  that  we 
consider  this  idea  of  the  decision  of  a  majority  as  if  it  were  a  law 
of  our  original  nature  ;  but  such  constructive  whole,  residing  in  a 
part  only,  is  one  of  the  most  violent  fictions  of  positive  law,  that 
ever  has  been,  or  can  be,  made  on  the  principles  of  artificial 
incorporation.  Out  of  civil  society  nature  knows  nothing  of  it ; 
nor  are  men,  even  when  arranged  according  to  civil  order,  other- 
wise than  by  very  long  training,  brought  at  all  to  submit  to  it. 
The  mind  is  brought  far  more  easily  to  acquiesce  in  the  proceed- 
ings of  one  man,  or  a  few,  who  act  under  a  general  procuration 
for  the  state,  than  in  the  vote  of  a  victorious  majority  in  councils, 
in  which  every  man  has  his  share  in  the  deliberation.  For  there 
the  beaten  party  are  exasperated  and  soured  by  the  previous  con- 
tention, and  mortified  by  the  conclusive  defeat.  This  mode  of 
decision,  where  wills  may  be  so  nearly  equal,  where,  according  to 
circumstances,  the  smaller  number  may  be  the  stronger  force, 
and  where  apparent  reason  may  be  all  upon  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  little  else  than  impetuous  appetite  ;  all  this  must  be  the 
result  of  a  very  particular  and  special  convention,  confirmed 
afterwards  by  long  habits  of  obedience,  by  a  sort  of  discipline  in 
society,  and  by  a  strong  hand,  vested  with  stationary,  permanent 
power,  to  enforce  this  sort  of  constructive  general  will.  What 
organ  is  it  that  shall  declare  the  corporate  mind  is  so  much  a 
matter  of  positive  arrangement,  that  several  states,  for  the 
validity  of  several  of  their  acts,  have  required  a  proportion  of 
voices  much  greater  than  that  of  a  mere  majority.  These  pro- 
portions are  so  entirely  governed  by  convention,  that  in  some 
cases  the  minority  decides.  The  laws  in  many  countries  to  con- 
demn require  more  than  a  mere  majority ;  less  than  an  equal 
number  to  acquit.  In  our  judicial  trials  we  require  unanimity 
either  to  condemn  or  to  absolve.  In  some  incorporations  one  man 
speaks  for  the  whole  ;  in  others,  a  few.      Until  the  other  day,  in 


EDMUND  BURKE  407 


the  constitution  of  Poland,  unanimity  was  required  to  give  validity 
to  any  act  of  their  great  national  council  or  diet.  This  approaches 
much  more  nearly  to  rude  nature  than  the  institutions  of  any 
other  country.  Such,  indeed,  eveiy  commonwealth  must  be, 
without  a  positive  law  to  recognise  in  a  certain  number  the  will 
of  the  entire  body. 

If  men  dissolve  their  ancient  incorporation,  in  order  to  re- 
generate their  community,  in  that  state  of  things  each  man  has  a 
right,  if  he  pleases,  to  remain  an  individual.  Any  number  of 
individuals,  who  can  agree  upon  it,  have  an  undoubted  right  to 
form  themselves  into  a  state  apart,  and  wholly  independent.  If 
any  of  these  is  forced  into  the  fellowship  of  another,  this  is  con- 
quest, not  compact.  On  every  principle,  which  supposes  society 
to  be  in  virtue  of  a  free  covenant,  this  compulsive  incorporation 
must  be  null  and  void. 

As  a  people  can  have  no  right  to  a  corporate  capacity  without 
universal  consent,  so  neither  have  they  a  right  to  hold  exclusively 
any  lands  in  the  name  and  title  of  a  corporation.  On  the  scheme 
of  the  present  rulers  in  our  neighbouring  country,  regenerated  as 
they  are,  they  have  no  more  right  to  the  territory  called  France 
than  I  have.  I  have  a  right  to  pitch  my  tent  in  any  unoccupied 
place  I  can  find  for  it ;  and  I  may  apply  to  my  own  maintenance 
any  part  of  their  unoccupied  soil.  I  may  purchase  the  house  or 
vineyard  of  any  individual  proprietor  who  refuses  his  consent 
(and  most  proprietors  have,  as  far  as  they  dared,  refused  it)  to 
the  new  incorporation.  I  stand  in  his  independent  place. 
Whose  are  these  insolent  men  calling  themselves  the  French 
nation,  that  would  monopolize  this  fair  domain  of  nature  ?  Is  it 
because  they  speak  a  certain  jargon  ?  Is  it  their  mode  of 
chattering,  to  me  unintelligible,  that  forms  their  title  to  my  land  ? 
Who  are  they  who  claim  by  prescription  and  descent  from  certain 
gangs  of  banditti  called  Franks,  and  Burgundians,  and  Visigoths, 
of  whom  I  may  have  never  heard,  and  ninety -nine  out  of  an 
hundred  of  themselves  certainly  never  have  heard  ;  whilst  at  the 
very  time  they  tell  me,  that  prescription  and  long  possession 
form  no  title  to  property  ?  Who  are  they  that  presume  to  assert 
that  the  land  which  I  purchased  of  the  individual,  a  natural 
person,  and  not  a  fiction  of  state,  belongs  to  them,  who  in  the 
very  capacity  in  which  they  make  their  claim  can  exist  only  as  an 
imaginary  being,  and  in  virtue  of  the  very  prescription  which 
they  reject  and  disown  'i     This  mode  of  arguing  might  be  pushed 


4o8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


into  all  the  detail,  so  as  to  leave  no  sort  of  doubt,  that  on  their 
principles  and  on  the  sort  of  footing  on  which  they  have  thought 
proper  to  place  themselves,  the  crowd  of  men,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  channel,  who  have  the  impudence  to  call  themselves  a 
people,  can  never  be  the  lawful,  exclusive  possessors  of  the  soil. 
By  what  they  call  reasoning  without  prejudice,  they  leave  not  one 
stone  upon  another  in  the  fabric  of  human  society.  They  sub- 
vert all  the  authority  which  they  hold,  as  well  as  all  that  which 
they  have  destroyed. 

As  in  the  abstract,  it  is  perfectly  clear,  that,  out  of  a  state  of 
civil  society,  majority  and  minority  are  relations  which  can  have 
no  existence  ;  and  that,  in  civil  society,  its  own  specific  conven- 
tions in  each  corporation  determine  what  it  is  that  constitutes  the 
people,  so  as  to  make  their  act  the  signification  of  the  general 
will  :  to  come  to  particulars,  it  is  equally  clear,  that  neither  in 
France  nor  in  England  has  the  original  or  any  subsequent 
compact  of  the  state,  expressed  or  implied,  constituted  a  majority 
of  men,  told  by  the  head,  to  be  the  acting  people  of  their  several 
communities.  And  I  see  as  little  of  policy  or  utility,  as  there  is 
of  right,  in  laying  down  a  principle  that  a  majority  of  men  told  by 
the  head  are  to  be  considered  as  the  people,  and  that  as  such 
their  will  is  to  be  law.  What  policy  can  there  be  found  in 
arrangements  made  in  defiance  of  every  political  principle  ?  To 
enable  men  to  act  with  the  weight  and  character  of  a  people,  and 
to  answer  the  ends  for  which  they  are  incorporated  into  that 
capacity,  we  must  suppose  them  (by  means  immediate  or  conse- 
quential) to  be  in  that  state  of  habitual  social  discipline,  in  which 
the  wiser,  the  more  expert,  and  the  more  opulent  conduct,  and  by 
conducting  enlighten  and  protect,  the  weaker,  the  less  knowing, 
and  the  less  provided  with  the  goods  of  fortune.  When  the 
multitude  are  not  under  this  discipline,  they  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  be  in  civil  society.  Give  once  a  certain  constitution  of  things, 
which  produces  a  variety  of  conditions  and  circumstances  in  a 
state,  and  there  is  in  nature  and  reason  a  principle  which,  for 
their  own  benefit,  postpones,  not  the  interest,  but  the  judgment 
of  those  who  are  numero  plures,  to  those  who  are  virtute 
ct  hotiore  viajorcs.  Numbers  in  a  state  (supposing,  which  is 
not  the  case  in  France,  that  a  state  does  exist)  are  always  of 
consideration — but  they  are  not  the  whole  consideration.  It  is 
in  things  more  serious  than  a  play  that  it  may  be  truly  said 
satis  est  equitem  niihi  plaudere. 


EDMUND  BURKE  409 


A  true  natural  aristocracy  is  not  a  separate  interest  in  the 
state,  or  separable  from  it.  It  is  an  essential  integrant  part  of 
any  large  body  rightly  constituted.  It  is  formed  out  of  a  class  of 
legitimate  presumptions,  which,  taken  as  generalities,  must  be 
admitted  for  actual  truths.  To  be  bred  in  a  place  of  estimation  ; 
to  see  nothing  low  and  sordid  from  one's  infancy  ;  to  be  taught 
to  respect  oneself;  to  be  habituated  to  the  censorial  inspection  of 
the  public  eye  ;  to  look  early  to  public  opinion  ;  to  stand  upon 
such  elevated  ground  as  to  be  enabled  to  take  a  large  view  of 
the  widespread  and  infinitely  diversified  combinations  of  men 
and  affairs  in  a  large  society ;  to  have  leisure  to  read,  to  reflect, 
to  converse  ;  to  be  enabled  to  draw  the  court  and  attention  of  the 
wise  and  learned  wherever  they  are  to  be  found  ; — to  be  habitu- 
ated in  armies  to  command  and  to  obey  ;  to  be  taught  to  despise 
danger  in  the  pursuit  of  honour  and  duty  ;  to  be  formed  to  the 
greatest  dega-ee  of  vigilance,  foresight,  and  circumspection,  in  a 
state  of  things  in  which  no  fault  is  committed  with  impunity,  and 
the  slightest  mistakes  draw  on  the  most  ruinous  consequences — 
to  be  led  to  a  guarded  and  regulated  conduct,  from  a  sense  that 
you  are  considered  as  an  instructor  of  your  fellow-citizens  in  their 
highest  concerns,  and  that  you  act  as  a  reconciler  between  God 
and  man — to  be  employed  as  an  administrator  of  law  and  justice, 
and  to  be  thereby  amongst  the  first  benefactors  of  mankind^ — to 
be  a  professor  of  high  science  or  of  liberal  and  ingenuous  art — to 
be  amongst  rich  traders,  who  from  their  success  are  presumed 
to  have  sharp  and  vigorous  understandings,  and  to  possess 
the  virtues  of  diligence,  order,  constancy,  and  regularity,  and 
to  have  cultivated  an  habitual  regard  to  commutative  justice — 
these  are  the  circumstances  of  men,  that  form  what  I  should  call 
a  natural  aristocracy,  without  which  there  is  no  nation. 

The  state  of  civil  society,  which  necessarily  generates  this 
aristocracy,  is  a  state  of  nature ;  and  much  more  truly  as  than 
a  savage  and  incoherent  mode  of  life.  For  man  is  by  nature 
reasonable  ;  and  he  is  never  perfectly  in  his  natural  state,  but 
when  he  is  placed  where  reason  may  be  best  cultivated,  and  most 
predominates.  Art  is  man's  nature.  We  are  as  much,  at  least, 
in  a  state  of  nature  in  formed  manhood,  as  in  immature  and  help- 
less infancy.  Men,  qualified  in  the  manner  I  have  just  described 
form  in  nature,  as  she  operates  in  the  common  modification  of 
society,  the  leading,  guiding,  and  governing  part.  It  is  the  soul 
to   the   body,   without  which   the  man  does  not  exist.      To  give 


4IO  ENGLISH  PROSE 


therefore  no  more  importance  in  the  social  order  to  such  descrip- 
tions of  men,  than  that  of  so  many  units,  is  a  horrible  usurpation. 
When  great  multitudes  act  together,  under  that  discipline  of 
nature,  I  recognise  the  People.  I  acknowledge  something  that 
perhaps  equals,  and  ought  always  to  guide,  the  sovereignty  of 
convention.  In  all  things  the  voice  of  this  grand  chorus  of 
national  harmony  ought  to  have  a  mighty  and  decisive  influence. 
But  when  you  disturb  this  harmony  ;  when  you  break  up  this 
beautiful  order,  this  array  of  truth  and  nature,  as  well  as  of  habit 
and  prejudice  ;  when  you  separate  the  common  sort  of  men  from 
their  proper  chieftains,  so  as  to  form  them  into  an  adverse  army, 
I  no  longer  know  that  venerable  object  called  the  People  in  such 
a  disbanded  race  of  deserters  and  vagabonds.  For  a  while  they 
may  be  terrible  indeed  ;  but  in  such  a  manner  as  wild  beasts  are 
terrible.  The  mind  owes  to  them  no  sort  of  submission.  They 
are,  as  they  have  always  been  reputed,  rebels.  They  may  lawfully 
be  fought  with,  and  brought  under  whenever  an  advantage  offers. 
Those  who  attempt  by  outrage  and  violence  to  deprive  men  of 
any  advantage  which  they  hold  under  the  laws,  and  to  destroy 
the  natural  order  of  life,  proclaim  war  against  them. 

(From  the  Same.) 

THE  DUKE  OF  BEDFORD'S  CENSURE  ON  THE 
BOUNTY  OF  THE  CROWN 

The  Duke  of  Bedford  conceives,  that  he  is  obliged  to  call  the 
attention  of  the  House  of  Peers  to  his  Majesty's  grant  to  me, 
which  he  considers  as  excessive,  and  out  of  all  bounds. 

I  know  not  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  really  seems,  that, 
whilst  his  Grace  was  meditating  his  well-considered  censure  upon 
me,  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  sleep.  Homer  nods  ;  and  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  may  dream  ;  and  as  dreams  (even  his  golden  dreams) 
are  apt  to  be  ill-pieced  and  incongruously  put  together,  his  Grace 
preserved  his  idea  of  reproach  to  me,  but  took  the  subject-matter 
from  the  Crown  grants  to  his  own  family.  This  is  "  the  stuff  of 
which  his  dreams  are  made."  In  that  way  of  putting  things 
together  his  Grace  is  perfectly  in  the  right.  The  grants  to  the 
house  of  Russell  were  so  enormous,  as  not  only  to  outrage  economy, 
but  even  to  stagger  credibility.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  is  the 
leviathan  among  all    the    creatures  of  the  Crown.      He  tumbles 


EDMUND  BURKE  411 


about  his  unwieldy  bulk  ;  he  plays  and  frolics  in  the  ocean  of 
the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he  is,  and  whilst  "he  lies  floating 
many  a  rood,"  he  is  still  a  creature.  His  ribs,  his  fins,  his  whale- 
bone, his  blubber,  the  very  spiracles  through  which  he  spouts  a 
torrent  of  brine  against  his  origin,  and  covers  me  all  over  with 
the  spray, — everything  of  him  and  about  him  is  from  the  throne. 
Is  it  for  him  to  question  the  dispensation  of  the  royal  favour  ? 

I  am  really  at  a  loss  to  draw  any  sort  of  parallel  between  the 
public  merits  of  his  Grace,  by  which  he  justifies  the  grants  he 
holds,  and  these  services  of  mine,  on  the  favourable  construction 
of  which  I  have  obtained  what  his  Grace  so  much  disapproves. 
In  private  life,  I  have  not  at  all  the  honour  of  acquaintance  with 
the  noble  duke.  But  I  ought  to  presume,  and  it  costs  me  nothing 
to  do  so,  that  he  abundantly  deserves  the  esteem  and  love  of  all 
who  live  with  him.  But,  as  to  public  service,  why  truly  it  would 
not  be  more  ridiculous  for  me  to  compare  myself  in  rank,  in  fortune 
in  splendid  descent,  in  youth,  strength,  or  figure,  with  the  Duke 
of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a  parallel  between  his  services  and  my 
attempts  to  be  useful  to  my  country.  It  would  not  be  gross 
adulation,  but  uncivil  irony,  to  say  that  he  has  any  public  merit 
of  his  own  to  keep  alive  the  idea  of  the  services  by  which  his 
vast  landed  pensions  were  obtained.  My  merits,  whatever  they 
are,  are  original  and  personal ;  his  are  derivative.  It  is  his 
ancestor,  the  original  pensioner,  that  laid  up  this  inexhaustible 
fund  of  merit,  which  makes  his  Grace  so  very  delicate  and  excep- 
tions about  the  merit  of  all  other  grantees  of  the  Crown.  Had 
he  permitted  me  to  remain  in  cjuiet,  I  should  have  said,  "  'Tis  his 
estate  ;  that's  enough.  It  is  his  by  law  ;  what  have  I  to  do  with 
it  or  its  history  ?  "  He  would  naturally  have  said  on  his  side,  "  'Tis 
this  man's  fortune.  He  is  as  good  now  as  my  ancestor  was  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  I  am  a  young  man  with  very  old 
pensions  ;  he  is  an  old  man  with  very  young  pensions, — that's  all." 

Why  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  me  reluctantly  to 
compare  my  little  merit  with  that  which  obtained  from  the  crown 
those  prodigies  of  profuse  donation,  by  which  he  tramples  on  the 
mediocrity  of  humble  and  laborious  individuals  ?  I  would  will- 
ingly leave  him  to  the  herald's  college,  which  the  philosophy  of 
the  sajis  citloties  (prouder  by  far  than  all  the  Garters,  and  Norroys, 
and  Clarencieux,  and  Rouge  Dragons,  that  ever  pranced  in  a 
procession  of  what  his  friends  call  aristocrats  and  despots)  will 
abolish  with  contumely  and  scorn.      These  historians,  recorders, 


412  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  blazoners  of  virtues  and  arms,  difter  wholly  from  that  other 
description  of  historians,  who  never  assign  any  act  of  politicians 
to  a  good  motive.  These  gentle  historians,  on  the  contrary,  dip 
their  pens  in  nothing  but  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  They 
seek  no  further  for  merit  than  the  preamble  of  a  patent,  or  the 
inscription  on  a  tomb.  With  them  every  man  created  a  peer  is 
first  a  hero  ready  made.  They  judge  of  every  man's  capacity  for 
office  by  the  offices  he  has  filled  ;  and  the  more  offices  the  more 
ability.  Every  general-officer  is  with  them  a  Marlborough  ;  every 
statesman  a  Burleigh  ;  every  judge  a  Murray  or  a  Yorke.  They 
who,  alive,  were  laughed  at  or  pitied  by  all  their  acquaintance, 
make  as  good  a  figure  as  the  best  of  them  in  the  pages  of  Guillim, 
Edmondson,  and  Collins. 

To  these  recorders,  so  full  of  good  nature  to  the  great  and 
prosperous,  I  would  willingly  leave  the  first  Baron  Russell,  and 
Earl  of  Bedford,  and  the  merits  of  his  grants.  But  the  aulnager, 
the  weigher,  the  meter  of  grants,  will  not  suffer  us  to  acquiesce 
in  the  judgment  of  the  prince  reigning  at  the  time  when  they  were 
made.  They  are  never  good  to  those  who  earn  them.  Well 
then  ;  since  the  new  grantees  have  war  made  upon  them  by  the 
old,  and  that  the  word  of  the  sovereign  is  not  to  be  taken,  let  us 
turn  our  eyes  to  history,  in  which  great  men  have  always  a 
pleasure  in  contemplating  the  heroic  origin  of  their  house. 

The  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  purchaser  of  the  grants, 
was  a  Mr.  Russell,  a  person  of  an  ancient  gentleman's  family 
raised  by  being  a  minion  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  As  there  generally 
is  some  resemblance  of  character  to  create  these  relations,  the 
favourite  was  in  all  likelihood  much  such  another  as  his  master. 
The  first  of  those  immoderate  grants  was  not  taken  from  the 
ancient  demesne  of  the  Crown,  but  from  the  recent  confiscation 
of  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  The  lion  having  sucked  the 
blood  of  his  prey,  threw  the  offal  carcass  to  the  jackal  in  waiting. 
Having  tasted  once  the  food  of  confiscation,  the  favourites  became 
fierce  and  ravenous.  This  worthy  favourite's  first  grant  was  from 
the  lay  nobility.  The  second,  infinitely  improving  on  the  enormity 
of  the  first,  was  from  the  plunder  of  the  Church.  In  truth  his 
Grace  is  somewhat  excusable  for  his  dislike  to  a  grant  like  mine, 
not  only  in  its  quantity,  but  in  its  kind  so  different  from  his  own. 

Mine  was  from  a  mild  and  benevolent  sovereign  ;  his  from 
Henry  the  Eighth. 

Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the  murder  of  any  innocent  person 


EDMUND  BURKE  413 


of  illustrious  rank,  or  in  the  pillage  of  any  body  of  unofifcnding 
men.  His  grants  were  from  the  aggregate  and  consolidated  funds 
of  judgments  iniquitously  legal,  and  from  possessions  voluntarily 
surrendered  by  the  lawful  proprietors,  with  the  gibbet  at  their 
door. 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  from  was  that  of 
being  a  prompt  and  greedy  instrument  of  a  levelling  tyrant,  who 
oppressed  all  descriptions  of  his  people,  but  who  fell  with  particular 
fury  on  everything  that  was  great  and  noble.  Mine  has  been,  in 
endeavouring  to  screen  every  man,  in  every  class,  from  oppression, 
and  particularly  in  defending  the  high  and  eminent  who,  in  bad 
times  of  confiscating  princes,  confiscating  chief  governors,  or 
confiscating  demagogues,  are  the  most  exposed  to  jealousy, 
avarice,  and  envy. 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  Grace's  pensions  was 
in  giving  his  hand  to  the  work  and  partaking  the  spoil  with  a 
prince,  who  plundered  a  part  of  the  national  church  of  his  time 
and  countiy.  Mine  was  in  defending  the  whole  of  the  national 
church  of  my  own  time  and  my  own  country,  and  the  whole  of 
the  national  churches  of  all  countries,  from  the  principles  and  the 
examples  which  lead  to  ecclesiastical  pillage,  thence  to  a  contempt 
of  all  prescriptive  titles,  thence  to  the  pillage  of  all  property,  and 
thence  to  universal  desolation. 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace's  fortune  was  in  being  a 
favourite  and  chief  adviser  to  a  prince,  who  left  no  liberty  to  their 
native  country.  My  endeavour  was  to  obtain  liberty  for  the 
municipal  country  in  which  I  was  born,  and  for  all  descriptions 
and  denominations  in  it.  Mine  was  to  support  with  unrelaxing 
vigilance  every  right,  every  privilege,  every  franchise,  in  this  my 
adopted,  my  dearer,  and  more  comprehensive  country  ;  and  not 
only  to  preserve  those  rights  in  this  chief  seat  of  empire,  but  in 
every  nation,  in  every  land,  in  every  climate,  language,  and 
religion,  in  the  vast  domain  that  is  still  under  the  protection,  and 
the  larger  that  was  once  under  the  protection  of  the  British 
Crown. 

His  founder's  merits  were  by  arts  in  which  he  served  his 
master  and  made  his  fortune,  to  bring  poverty,  wretchedness, 
and  depopulation  on  his  country.  Mine  were,  under  a  benevolent 
prince,  in  promoting  the  commerce,  manufactures,  and  agriculture 
of  his  kingdom  ;  in  which  his  Majesty  shows  an  eminent  example, 
who  even  in  his  amusements  is  a  patriot,  and  in  hours  of  leisure 
an  improver  of  his  native  soil. 


414  ENGLISH  PROSE 


His  founder's  merit  was  the  merit  of  a  gentleman  raised  by 
the  arts  of  a  court,  and  the  protection  of  a  Wolsey,  to  the  eminence 
of  a  great  and  potent  lord.  His  merit  in  that  eminence  was,  by 
instigating  a  tyrant  to  injustice,  to  provoke  a  people  to  rebellion. 
My  merit  was  to  awaken  the  sober  part  of  the  country,  that  they 
might  put  themselves  on  their  guard  against  any  one  potent  lord, 
or  any  greater  number  of  potent  lords,  or  any  combination  of 
great  leading  men  of  any  sort,  if  ever  they  should  attempt  to 
proceed  in  the  same  courses,  but  in  the  reverse  order  ;  that  is  by 
instigating  a  corrupted  populace  to  rebellion,  and,  through  that 
rebellion,  introducing  a  tyranny  yet  worse  than  the  tyranny  which 
his  Grace's  ancestor  supported,  and  of  which  he  profited  in  the 
manner  we  behold  in  the  despotism  of  Henry  the  Eighth. 

The  political  merit  of  the  first  pensioner  of  his  Grace's  house 
was  that  of  being  concerned  as  a  counsellor  of  state  in  advising, 
and  in  his  person  executing,  the  conditions  of  a  dishonourable 
peace  with  France  ;  the  surrendering  the  fortress  of  Boulogne, 
then  our  out-guard  on  the  continent.  By  that  surrender  Calais, 
the  key  of  France,  and  the  bridle  in  the  mouth  of  that  power, 
was,  not  many  years  afterwards,  finally  lost.  My  merit  has  been 
in  resisting  the  power  and  pride  of  France,  under  any  form  of  its 
rule  ;  but  in  opposing  it  with  the  greatest  zeal  and  earnestness, 
when  that  rule  appeared  in  the  worst  form  it  could  assume  ;  the 
worst  indeed  which  the  prime  cause  and  principle  of  all  evil  could 
possibly  give  it.  It  was  my  endeavour  by  every  means  to  excite 
a  spirit  in  the  House  where  I  had  the  honour  of  a  seat,  for  carrying 
on,  with  early  vigour  and  decision,  the  most  clearly  just  and 
necessary  war,  that  this  or  any  nation  ever  carried  on  ;  in  order 
to  save  my  country  from  the  iron  yoke  of  its  power,  and  from 
the  more  dreadful  contagion  of  its  principles  ;  to  preserve,  while 
they  can  be  preserved,  pure  and  untainted,  the  ancient,  inbred 
integrity,  piety,  good  nature,  and  good  humour  of  the  people  of 
England,  from  the  dreadful  pestilence,  which,  beginning  in  France, 
threatens  to  lay  waste  the  whole  moral,  and  in  a  great  degree  the 
whole  physical,  world,  having  done  both  in  the  focus  of  its  most 
intense  malignity. 

The  labours  of  his  Grace's  founder  merited  the  curses,  not 
loud  but  deep,  of  the  Commons  of  England,  on  whom  he  and  his 
master  had  effected  a  complete  parliamentary  reform,  by  making 
them,  in  their  slavery  and  humiliation,  the  true  and  adequate 
representatives  of  a  debased,  degraded,  and  undone  people.      My 


EDMUND  BURKE  415 


merits  were,  in  having  had  an  active,  though  not  always  an 
ostentatious,  share,  in  every  one  act,  without  exception,  of  un- 
disputed constitutional  utility  in  my  time,  and  in  having  supported, 
on  all  occasions,  the  authority,  the  efificiency,  and  the  privileges 
of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain.  I  ended  my  services  by  a 
recorded  and  fully  reasoned  assertion  on  their  own  journals  of 
their  constitutional  rights,  and  a  vindication  of  their  constitutional 
conduct.  I  laboured  in  all  things  to  merit  their  inward  approba- 
tion, and  (along  with  the  assistance  of  the  largest,  the  greatest, 
and  best  of  my  endeavours)  I  received  their  free,  unbiassed,  pulDJic, 
and  solemn  thanks. 

Thus  stands  the  account  of  the  comparative  merits  of  the 
Crown  grants  which  compose  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  fortune  as 
balanced  against  mine.  In  the  name  of  common  sense  why 
should  the  Duke  of  Bedford  think,  that  none  but  of  the  house  of 
Russell  are  entitled  to  the  favour  of  the  Crown  ?  Why  should  he 
imagine  that  no  king  of  England  has  been  capable  of  judging 
merit  but  King  Henry  the  Eighth  .?  Indeed,  he  will  pardon  me  ; 
he  is  a  little  mistaken  ;  all  virtue  did  not  end  in  the  first  Earl  of 
Bedford.  All  discernment  did  not  lose  its  vision  when  his 
creator  closed  his  eyes.  Let  him  remit  his  rigour  on  the  dis- 
proportion between  merit  and  reward  in  others,  and  they  will 
make  no  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  his  fortune.  They  will  regard 
with  much  more  satisfaction,  as  he  will  contemplate  with  infinitely 
more  advantage,  whatever  in  his  pedigree  has  been  dulcified  by 
an  exposure  to  the  influence  of  heaven  in  a  long  flow  of  genera- 
tions, from  the  hard  acidulous  metallic  tincture  of  the  spring.  It 
is  little  to  be  doubted,  that  several  of  his  forefathers  in  that  long 
series  have  degenerated  into  honour  and  virtue.  Let  the  Duke 
of  Bedford  (I  am  sure  he  will)  reject  with  scorn  and  horror  the 
counsels  of  the  lecturers,  those  wicked  panders  to  avarice  and 
ambition,  who  would  tempt  him,  in  the  troubles  of  his  country,  to 
seek  another  enormous  fortune  from  the  forfeitures  of  another 
nobility,  and  the  plunder  of  another  church.  Let  him  (and  I 
trust  that  yet  he  will)  employ  all  the  energy  of  his  youth,  and  all 
the  resources  of  his  wealth,  to  crush  rebellious  principles  which 
have  no  foundation  in  morals,  and  rebellious  movements  that  have 
no  provocation  in  tyranny. 

Then  will  be  forgot  the  rebellions,  which,  by  a  doubtful  priority 
in  crime,  his  ancestor  had  provoked  and  extinguished.  On  such 
a  conduct  in  the  noble  Duke  many  of  his  countrymen  might,  and 


4i6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


with  some  excuse  might,  give  way  to  the  enthusiasm  of  their 
gratitude,  and,  in  the  dashing  style  of  some  of  the  old  declaimers, 
cry  out,  that  if  the  fates  had  found  no  other  way  in  which  they 
could  give  a  Duke  of  Bedford  and  his  opulence  as  props  to  a 
tottering  world,  then  the  butchery  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham 
might  be  tolerated  ;  it  might  be  regarded  even  with  complacency, 
whilst  in  the  heir  of  confiscation  they  saw  the  sympathizing 
comforter  of  the  martyrs,  who  suffer  under  the  cruel  confiscation 
of  this  day  ;  whilst  they  behold  with  admiration  his  zealous 
protection  of  the  virtuous  and  loyal  nobility  of  France,  and  his 
manly  support  of  his  brethren,  the  yet  standing  nobility  and 
gentry  of  his  native  land.  Then  his  Grace's  merit  would  be  pure, 
and  new,  and  sharp,  as  fresh  from  the  mint  of  honour.  As  he 
pleased  he  might  reflect  honour  on  his  predecessors,  or  throw  it 
forward  on  those  who  were  to  succeed  him.  He  might  be  the 
propagator  of  the  stock  of  honour,  or  the  root  of  it,  as  he  thought 
proper. 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes  of  succession, 
I  should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity,  and  the  medi- 
ocrity of  the  age  I  live  in,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a  family  :  I  should 
have  left  a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can 
be  viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honour, 
in  generosity,  in  humanity,  in  every  liberal  sentiment,  and  every 
liberal  accomplishment,  would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to 
the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  whom  he  traces  in  his 
line.  His  Grace  very  soon  would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in 
his  attack  upon  that  provision  which  belonged  more  to  mine  than 
to  me.  He  would  soon  have  supplied  every  deficiency,  and  sym- 
metrized every  disproportion.  It  would  not  have  been  for  that 
successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant  wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in 
me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in  himself  a  salient,  living 
spring  of  generous  and  manly  action.  Every  day  he  lived  he 
would  have  re-purchased  the  bounty  of  the  Crown,  and  ten  times 
more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He  was  made  a  public 
creature  ;  and  had  no  enjoyment  whatever  but  in  the  performance 
of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent  moment,  the  loss  of  a  finished 
man  is  not  easily  supplied. 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to  resist,  and 
whose  wisdom  it  behoves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained  it 
in  another  manner,  and  (whatever  my  cjuerulous  weakness  might 
suggest)  a  far  better.     The  storm  has  gone  over  me  ;  and   I  lie 


EDMUND  BURKE  417 


like  one  of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scattered 
about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my  honours,  I  am  torn  up  by 
the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the  earth  !  There,  and  prostrate 
there,  I  most  unfeignedly  recognise  the  Divine  justice,  and  in 
some  degree  submit  to  it.  But  whilst  I  humble  myself  before 
God,  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of 
unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.  The  patience  of  Job  is  proverbial. 
After  some  of  the  convulsive  struggles  of  our  irritable  nature,  he 
submitted  himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  But  even  so, 
I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending-,  and  with  a  consider- 
able degree  of  verbal  asperity,  those  ill-natured  neighbours  of  his, 
who  visited  his  dunghill  to  read  moral,  political,  and  economical 
lectures  on  his  misery.  I  am  alone.  I  have  none  to  meet  my 
enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my  Lord,  I  greatly  deceive  myself, 
if  in  this  hard  season  I  would  give  a  peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all 
that  is  called  fame  and  honour  in  the  world.  This  is  the  appetite 
of  but  a  few.  It  is  a  luxury,  it  is  a  privilege,  it  is  an  indulgence 
for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all  of  us  made  to 
shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink  from  pain,  and  poverty, 
and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct :  and  under  the  direction  of  reason, 
instinct  is  always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted  order. 
They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before.  They 
who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of 
ancestors.  I  owe  to  the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must  subsist 
in  memory)  that  act  of  piety,  which  he  would  have  performed  to 
me  ;  I  owe  it  to  him  to  show  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent. 

The  Crown  has  considered  me  after  long  service  :  the  Crown 
has  paid  the  Duke  of  Bedford  by  advance.  He  has  had  a  long 
credit  for  any  service  he  may  perform  hereafter.  He  is  secure, 
and  long  may  he  be  secure  in  his  advance,  whether  he  performs 
any  services  or  not.  But  let  him  take  care  how  he  endangers  the 
safety  of  that  constitution  which  secures  his  own  utility  or  his  own 
insignificance  ;  or  how  he  discourages  those,  who  take  up,  even 
puny  arms,  to  defend  an  order  of  things,  which  like  the  sun  of 
heaven  shines  alike  on  the  useful  and  the  worthless.  His  grants 
are  ingrafted  on  the  public  law  of  Europe,  covered  with  the  awful 
hoar  of  innumerable  ages.  They  are  guarded  by  the  sacred  rules 
of  prescription,  found  in  that  full  treasury  of  jurisprudence  from 
which  the  jejuneness  and  penury  of  our  municipal  law  has,  by 
degrees  been    enriched   and  strengthened.      This    prescription   I 

VOL.  IV  2  E 


41 8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


had  my  share  (a  very  full  share)  in  bringing  to  perfection.  The 
Duke  of  Bedford  will  stand  as  long  as  prescriptive  law  endures  ; 
as  long  as  the  great  stable  laws  of  property,  common  to  us  with 
all  civilised  nations,  are  kept  in  their  integrity,  and  without  the 
smallest  intermixture  of  laws,  maxims,  principles,  or  precedents  of 
the  grand  Revolution.  They  are  secure  against  all  changes  but 
one.  The  whole  revolutionary  system — institutes,  digests,  code, 
novels,  text,  gloss,  comment,  are  not  only  not  the  same,  but  they  are 
the  very  reverse,  and  the  reverse  fundamentally,  of  all  the  laws  on 
which  civil  life  has  hitherto  been  upheld  in  all  the  governments  of  the 
world.  The  learned  professors  of  the  rights  of  man  regard  prescrip- 
tion not  as  a  title  to  bar  all  claim,  set  up  against  all  possession, 
but  they  look  on  prescription  as  itself  a  bar  against  the  possessor 
and  proprietor.  They  hold  an  immemorial  possession  to  be  no 
more  than  a  long  continued  and  therefore  an  ag'gravated  injustice. 
Such  are  their  ideas ;  such  their  religion,  and  such  their 
law.  But  as  to  our  country  and  our  race,  as  long  as  the  well- 
compacted  structure  of  our  church  and  state,  the  sanctuary,  the 
holy  of  holies  of  that  ancient  law,  defended  by  reverence,  defended 
by  power,  a  fortress  at  once  and  a  temple,  shall  stand  inviolate 
on  the  brow  of  the  British  Sion — as  long  as  the  British  monarchy, 
not  more  limited  than  fenced  by  the  orders  of  the  state,  shall, 
like  the  proud  Keep  of  Windsor,  rising  in  the  majesty  of  proportion, 
and  girt  with  the  double  belt  of  its  kindred  and  coeval  towers,  as 
long  as  this  awful  structure  shall  oversee  and  guard  the  subjected 
land — so  long  the  mounds  and  dykes  of  the  low  fat  Bedford 
level  will  have  nothing  to  fear  from  all  the  pickaxes  of  all  the 
levellers  of  France.  As  long  as  our  sovereign  Lord  the  King, 
and  his  faithful  subjects,  the  Lords  and  Commons  of  this  realm, — 
the  triple  cord,  which  no  man  can  break  ;  the  solemn  sworn 
constitutional  frank-pledge  of  this  nation  ;  the  firm  guarantees  of 
each  other's  being  and  each  other's  rights  :  the  joint  and  several 
securities,  each  in  its  place  and  order,  for  every  kind  and  eveiy 
quality,  of  property  and  of  dignity  ; — as  long  as  these  endure,  so 
long  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  safe  :  and  we  are  all  safe  together— 
the  high  from  the  blights  of  envy  and  the  spoliations  of  rapacity  ; 
the  low  from  the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and  the  insolent  spurn 
of  contempt.      Amen  !  and  so  be  it :  and  so  it  will  be, 

Dum  domus  TEnere  Capitoli  immobile  saxum 
Accolet  ;   imperiumque  pater  Ronianus  liabebit." 

(From  A  Letter  to  a  Nohic  Lord.) 


EDMUND  BURKE  419 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS  AND  WARREN   HASTINGS 

My  lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a  great  act  of  national 
justice  ?  Do  we  want  a  cause,  my  lords  ?  You  have  the  cause 
of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone  women  of  the  first  rank,  of 
desolated  provinces,  and  of  wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords  ?  When  was  there  so  much 
iniquity  ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one  ? — No,  my  lords,  you 
must  not  look  to  punish  any  other  such  delinquent  from  India. — 
Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  substance  enough  in  India  to 
nourish  such  another  delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want  ?  You  have  before  you 
the  Commons  of  Great  Britain  as  prosecutors  ;  and  I  believe,  my 
lords,  that  the  sun  in  his  beneficent  progress  round  the  world 
does  not  behold  a  more  glorious  sight  than  that  of  men,  separated 
from  a  remote  people  by  the  material  bounds  and  barriers  of 
nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a  social  and  moral  community  ; 
all  the  Commons  of  England  resenting,  as  their  own,  the  indig- 
nities and  cruelties  that  are  offered  to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal  ?  My  lords,  no  example  of  antiquity, 
nothing  in  the  modem  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human 
imagination,  can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  like  this.  My  lords, 
here  we  see  virtually  in  the  mind's  eye  that  sacred  majesty  of  the 
Crown,  under  whose  authority  you  sit,  and  whose  power  you 
exercise.  We  see  in  that  invisible  authority,  what  we  all  feel  in 
reality  and  life,  the  beneficent  powers  and  protecting  justice  of 
his  Majesty.  We  have  here  the  heir-apparent  to  the  Crown, 
such  as  the  fond  wishes  of  the  people  of  England  wish  an  heir- 
apparent  of  the  Crown  to  be.  We  have  here  all  the  branches  of 
the  royal  family  in  a  situation  between  majesty  and  subjection, 
between  the  sovereign  and  the  subject,  offering  a  pledge  in  that 
situation  for  the  support  of  the  rights  of  the  Crown  and  the  liberties 
of  the  people,  both  which  extremities  they  touch.  My  lords,  we 
have  a  great  hereditary  peerage  here  ;  those  who  have  their  own 
honour,  the  honour  of  their  ancestors,  and  of  their  posterity,  to 
guard  ;  and  who  will  justify,  as  they  have  always  justified,  that 
provision  in  the  constitution  by  which  justice  is  made  an 
hereditary  office.  My  lords,  we  have  here  a  new  nobility  who 
have  risen  and  exalted  themselves  by  various   merits,  by  great 


420  ENGLISH  PROSE 


military  services,  which  have  extended  the  fame  of  this  country 
from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun  :  we  have  those  who  by  various 
civil  merits  and  various  civil  talents  have  been  exalted  to  a 
situation  which  they  well  deserve,  and  in  which  they  will  justify 
the  favour  of  their  sovereign,  and  the  good  opinion  of  their  fellow- 
subjects,  and  make  them  rejoice  to  see  those  virtuous  characters, 
that  were  the  other  day  upon  a  level  with  them,  now  exalted 
above  them  in  rank,  but  feeling  with  them  in  sympathy  what  they 
felt  in  common  with  them  before.  We  have  persons  exalted  from 
the  practice  of  the  law,  from  the  place  in  which  they  administered 
high  though  subordinate  justice,  to  a  seat  here,  to  enlighten  with 
their  knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with  their  votes  those  principles 
which  have  distinguished  the  courts  in  which  they  have  presided. 

My  lords,  you  have  here  also  the  lights  of  our  religion  ;  you 
have  the  Bishops  of  England.  My  lords,  you  have  that  true 
image  of  the  primitive  church  in  its  ancient  form,  in  its  ancient 
ordinances,  purified  from  the  superstitions  and  the  vices  which  a 
long  succession  of  ages  will  bring  upon  the  best  institutions.  You 
have  the  representatives  of  that  religion  which  says  that  their  God 
is  love,  that  the  very  vital  spirit  of  their  institution  is  charity  ;  a 
religion  which  so  much  hates  oppression,  that  when  the  God 
whom  we  adore  appeared  in  human  form.  He  did  not  appear  in  a 
form  of  greatness  and  majesty,  but  in  sympathy  with  the  lowest 
of  the  people,  and  thereby  made  it  a  firm  and  ruling  principle, 
that  their  welfare  was  the  object  of  all  government,  since  the 
Person  who  was  the  Master  of  Nature  chose  to  appear  Himself  in 
a  subordinate  situation.  These  are  the  considerations  which 
influence  them,  which  animate  them,  and  will  animate  them, 
against  all  oppression  ;  knowing  that  He  who  is  called  first  among 
them  and  first  amongst  us  all,  both  of  the  flock  that  is  fed  and  of 
those  who  feed  it,  made  Himself  "the  servant  of  all." 

My  lords,  these  are  the  securities  which  we  have  in  all  the 
constituent  parts  of  the  body  of  this  house.  We  know  them, 
we  reckon,  we  rest  upon  them,  and  commit  safely  the  interests 
of  India  and  of  humanity  into  your  hands.  Therefore,  it  is 
with  confidence  that,  ordered  by  the  Commons, — 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.,  of  high  crimes  and  mis- 
demeanours. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain 
in  Parliament  assembled,  whose  parliamentary  trust  he  has 
betrayed. 


EDMUND  BURKE  421 


I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain,  whose  national  character  he  has  dishonoured. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  in  India,  whose 
laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he  has  subverted,  whose  properties  he 
has  destroyed,  whose  country  he  has  laid  waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue  of  those  eternal 
laws  of  justice  which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  which  he 
has  cruelly  outraged,  injured,  and  oppressed  in  both  sexes,  in 
every  age,  rank,  situation,  and  condition  of  life. 

(From  Speech  hi  the  I»ipeacJu)ient  of  Warren  Has  tings ,  Esq.) 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


[In  thu  life  of  Cowpcr  (1731-1800)  there  arc  few  entries  of  literary  work — 
only  a  few  essays,  some  occasional  verses,  and  his  Olncy  Hymns — before  the 
wonderful  revival  of  his  spirits  in  1780.  The  Progress  of  Error  was  written 
in  1780  ;  Truth,  Table  Talk,  Expostulation,  in  1781,  at  the  bidding  of  iVIrs. 
Unwin  :  the  subject  of  The  Task  was  prescribed  Ijy  Lady  Austen  in  1783. 
John  Gilpin  took  the  town  in  1785  ;  the  translation  of  Homer,  begun  in  that 
year,  was  published  in  1791.  Cowper  in  his  earlier  days  had  been  interested 
in  books,  but  never  very  zealously.  He  was  afflicted  in  1763  by  an  alienation 
of  mind,  and  an  oblivion  of  his  former  friends  and  pursuits,  that  for  a  time 
threw  him  out  of  the  world  :  under  the  too  powerful  influence  of  Mr.  Newton 
he  was  not  inclined  to  read  much,  nor  to  write  ;  though  it  was  by  Newton 
that  he  was  induced  to  join  in  the  composition  of  the  Olney  Hymns  (published 
in  1779).  From  1780  onward,  for  aljout  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  Cowper 
had  something  like  freedom  ;  he  set  himself  to  work,  and  found  that  he  could 
write  ;  with  the  power  of  original  work  there  returned  also  the  pleasures  of 
study,  which  had  been  dormant  since  his  withdrawal  from  London. 

His  prose  is  contained  in  his  letters,  and  a  few  occasional  papers  (  Works 
of  William  Cowper,  Esq.,  edited  by  Southey,  1835-1837,  15  volumes).  The 
five  essays  in  the  Connoisseur  (17^6)  are  the  most  considerable  of  Cowper's 
writings  in  the  first  half  of  his  life.  ] 

Cowper,  before  his  melancholy  attacked  him  and  drove  him  out 
to  the  plains  of  the  Ouse,  was  accustomed  to  occupy  his  leisure 
with  literary  diversions,  appropriate  to  the  society  of  "  Wits  and 
Templars "  in  which  he  lived.  The  days  of  the  "  Nonsense 
Club,"  and  of  his  association  with  Lloyd,  Thornton,  and  Colman, 
are  marked,  in  his  writings,  by  the  five  prose  papers  contributed 
in  1756  to  the  Cotmoisseiir.  These  essays  have  nothing  parti- 
cular in  their  style  to  distinguish  them  from  the  common  following 
of  the  Tatlcr  and  the  Spectator ;  the  matter  of  them,  in  the 
record  of  the  practical  jokes  played  by  lively  young  ladies  on  an 
old  bachelor,  and  of  the  aspect  and  ways  of  country  churches 
and  congregations,  is  matter  as  good  as  may  be  found  in  any 
similar  studies  from  life. 


424  ENGLISH  PROSE 


The  influence  of  the  Nonsense  Club  is  to  be  traced  in  all 
Cowper's  life  and  writings  :  or,  rather,  it  may  be  truer  to  say 
that  the  major  part  of  his  work  reveals  in  him  the  same  idleness, 
the  same  ease  of  style  and  disdain  for  pretentious  rhetoric  as 
characterise  the  five  essays  in  the  Coniwissetir.  In  the  embarrassed 
and  belated  course  of  his  life  there  were  many  pieces  of  good 
fortune  or  good  guidance  ;  the  melancholy  that  attacked  him  at 
the  age  of  32  was  compensated  by  his  extraordinary  growth  in 
strength  and  energy  of  spirit  towards  his  fiftieth  year.  At  the 
same  time  his  old  ideas  and  habits  of  thought  were  not  discarded. 
There  was  a  deepening  of  the  power  of  observation  which  had 
been  already  shown  in  his  essays,  there  was  a  livelier  interest  in 
literary  workmanship  :  but  still  The  Task  is,  in  the  main,  a  leisurely 
exercise  of  the  faculties  that  had  been  tested,  slackly  enough,  in 
the  days  of  Cowper's  residence  in  the  Temple  and  his  association 
with  the  wits. 

His  letters  are  his  principal  work  in  prose,  if  not  the  best  of 
all  his  work.  They  differ  from  most  of  the  prose  of  the  time  by 
the  same  interval  as  separates  the  verse  of  The  Task  at  its  best 
from  the  verse  of  The  Botanic  Gardeti.  The  phrase  of  Landor, 
in  the  preface  to  the  Hellenics,  "not  prismatic  but  diaphanous," 
applies  more  fitly  to  the  style  of  Cowper  in  verse  and  prose, 
esi3ecially  prose,  than  to  any  other  writer.  It  is  not  that  the 
style  is  insipid  or  tame  ;  it  is  alive  and  light  ;  but  it  escapes 
notice,  like  the  prose  of  Southey,  by  reason  of  its  perfect  accommo- 
dation to  the  matter. 

The  matter  in  this  case  is  the  life  and  experience  of  a  man 
who  followed  consistently  his  natural  bent  for  the  quiet  life  and 
the  Valley  of  Humiliation  ;  who  believed  instinctively  and 
sincerely,  and  without  any  parade  of  philosophy,  that  it  was 
better  to  be  a  spectator  than  an  actor  in  life  (letter  to  Joseph  Hill, 
3rd  July  1765).  The  chief  part  of  the  letters  is  a  record  of  the 
unimportant  things  of  Huntingdon,  Olney,  and  Weston  ;  though 
there  are  some  heroic  matters  in  them  also,  as  in  Cowper's 
perseverance  in  work  when  he  had  once  been  roused  to  it,  and 
the  courage  with  which  he  protested  at  last  against  the  officious 
counsels  and  rebuke  of  Mr.  Newton.  As  Cowper's  poetry,  at  its 
best,  is  refreshing,  because  of  its  command  of  the  object  in  view, 
its  observance  of  the  right  distance,  its  calmness  and  simplicity, 
so  the  prose  of  his  letters  is  able  to  give  the  aspect  of  things,  and 
the  essence  of  experience,  in  clear  sentences  that  insinuate  their 


WILLIAM  COWPER  425 


meaning  into  the  mind  without  display  or  affectation  :  there  is  no 
strain  or  friction  or  heat.  The  prose  of  Cowper  is  free  from  the 
extraordinary  fragments  of  poetical  diction  that  sometimes  in- 
terrupt in  a  glaring  manner  the  even-tempered  diction  of  his 
poetical  work  :  and  though  his  letters  are  not  wanting  in  literary 
conceits,  these  are  not  characteristic  or  frequent,  as  they  are 
in  the  letters  of  Gray  and  Walpole.  The  excellence  of  Cowper's 
style  in  his  letters  is  its  fluency  and  continuity  ;  he  is  not,  as  a 
rule,  epigrammatic. 

'Everything  that  we  do  is  in  reality  important,  though  half 
that  we  do  seems  to  be  pushpin.'  This  phrase  from  a  letter  of 
the  year  1788  might  be  taken  out  of  its  context  as  a  general 
confession  of  Cowper's  theory  of  life,  and  a  justification  of  his 
want  of  spirit.  Certainly  no  man  with  so  feeble  a  hold  upon  life 
ever  made  so  much  out  of  an  apparently  narrow  range  of  experi- 
ence. The  picture  in  Cowper's  letters  of  his  life  at  Olney  and 
Weston  {were  it  ftof  that  he  had  bad  drea?!is)  is  one  of  the 
brightest  in  the  1 8th  century.  And  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  memorable 
picture,  the  success  is  due  to  the  writer's  faculty  of  seeing  and 
appreciating  things  as  they  came  to  him,  without  leaving  his 
own  ground.  His  letters  have  the  distinction  of  Miss  Austen's 
novels,  with  which  they  often  seem  to  have  a  mysterious  affinity  ; 
the  subjects  are  so  trivial,  the  value  of  the  record  so  much  out  of 
proportion  to  the  subjects.  No  letters  in  English  are  more 
absolutely  free  from  the  disgrace  attaching  to  the  manners  of 
public  and  professional  rhetoric.  At  the  same  time,  they  are 
good,  not  as  any  true  account  of  incidents  or  people  may  be  good, 
but  good  because  they  are  written  in  the  best  way.  The  effect 
they  produce  is  not  that  of  docunients,  but  of  literature.  There 
is  no  pretence  of  fine  writing,  no  attempt  at  historical  portraiture 
of  characters,  in  the  letters  about  the  small  adventures  of  Olney, 
the  blue  willows,  the  flooded  meadows,  the  spinnie,  the  Throck- 
mortons.  But  the  perfect  sincerity  of  the  style  is  more  captivating 
and  more  inimitable  than  all  the  graces  and  brilliances. 

W.  P.  Ker. 


MR.   VILLAGE  TO   MR.   TOWN 

Dear  Cousin — The  country  at  present,  no  less  than  the  metro- 
poHs,  aboundhig  with  pohticians  of  every  kind,  I  began  to  despair 
of  picking  up  any  intelligence  that  might  possibly  be  entertaining 
to  your  readers.  However,  I  have  lately  visited  some  of  the 
most  distant  parts  of  the  kingdom  with  a  clergyman  of  my 
acquaintance  :  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  an  account  of  the 
improvements  that  have  been  made  in  the  seats  we  saw  according 
to  the  modern  taste,  but  proceed  to  give  you  some  reflections 
which  occurred  to  us  on  observing  several  country  churches  and 
the  behaviour  of  their  congregations. 

The  ruinous  condition  of  some  of  these  edifices  gave  me  great 
offence  ;  and  I  could  not  help  wishing,  that  the  honest  vicar, 
instead  of  indulging  his  genius  for  improvements,  by  enclosing 
his  gooseberry-bushes  within  a  Chinese  rail,  and  converting  half 
an  acre  of  his  glebe-land  into  a  bowling-green,  would  have  applied 
part  of  his  income  to  the  more  laudable  purpose  of  sheltering  his 
parishioners  from  the  weather  during  their  attendance  on  divine 
service.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  the  parsonage-house 
well  thatched  and  in  exceeding  good  repair,  while  the  church 
perhaps  has  scarce  any  other  roof  than  the  ivy  that  grows  over 
it.  The  noise  of  owls,  bats,  and  magpies  makes  the  principal 
part  of  the  church  music  in  many  of  these  ancient  edifices  ;  and 
the  walls,  like  a  large  map,  seem  to  be  portioned  out  into  capes, 
seas,  and  promontories,  by  the  various  colours  by  which  the 
damps  have  stained  them.  Sometimes,  the  foundation  being  too 
weak  to  support  the  steeple  any  longer,  it  has  been  found 
expedient  to  pull  down  that  part  of  the  building,  and  to  hang  the 
bells  under  a  wooden  shed  on  the  ground  beside  it.  This  is  the 
case  in  a  parish  in  Norfolk,  through  which  I  lately  passed,  and 
where    the    clerk    and    the   sexton,    like   the   two   figures   at    St. 


WILLIAM  COIVPER  427 


Dunstan's,  serve  the  bells  in  capacity  of  clappers,  by  striking 
them  alternately  with  a  hammer. 

In  other  churches  I  have  observed,  that  nothing  unseemly  or 
ruinous  is  to  be  found  except  in  the  clergymen  and  the  append- 
ages of  his  person.  The  squire  of  the  parish,  or  his  ancestors 
perhaps,  to  testify  their  devotion  and  leave  a  lasting  monument 
of  their  magnificence,  have  adorned  the  altar-piece  with  the 
richest  crimson  velvet,  embroidered  with  vine  leaves  and  ears  of 
wheat ;  and  have  dressed  up  the  pulpit  with  the  same  splendour 
and  expense  ;  while  the  gentleman,  who  fills  it,  is  exalted,  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  finery,  with  a  surplice  as  dirty  as  a  farmer's 
frock,  and  a  periwig  that  seems  to  have  transferred  its  faculty  of 
curling  to  the  band,  which  appears  in  full  buckle  beneath  it. 

But  if  I  was  concerned  to  see  several  distressed  pastors,  as 
well  as  many  of  our  country  churches  in  a  tottering  condition,  I 
was  more  offended  with  the  indecency  of  worship  in  others.  I 
could  wish  that  the  clergy  would  inform  their  congregations,  that 
there  is  no  occasion  to  scream  themselves  hoarse  in  making  the 
responses  ;  that  the  town-crier  is  not  the  only  person  qualified  to 
pray  with  due  devotion  ;  and  that  he  who  bawls  the  loudest  may, 
nevertheless,  be  the  wickedest  fellow  in  the  parish.  The  old 
women  too  in  the  aisle  might  be  told  that  their  time  would  be 
better  employed  in  attending  to  the  sermon,  than  in  fumbling 
over  their  tattered  testaments  till  they  have  found  the  text,  lay 
which  time  the  discourse  is  drawing  near  to  a  conclusion  ;  while 
a  word  or  two  of  instruction  might  not  be  thrown  away  upon  the 
younger  part  of  the  congregation,  to  teach  them  that  making 
posies  in  summer  time,  and  cracking  nuts  in  autumn,  is  no  part 
of  the  religious  ceremony. 

The  good  old  practice  of  psalm-singing  is  indeed  wonderfully 
improved  in  many  country  churches  since  the  days  of  Sternhold 
and  Hopkins  ;  and  there  is  scarce  a  parish-clerk,  who  has  so 
little  taste  as  not  to  pick  his  staves  out  of  the  New  Version. 
This  has  occasioned  great  complaints  in  some  places,  where  the 
clerk  has  been  forced  to  bawl  by  himself,  because  the  rest  of  the 
congregation  cannot  find  the  psalm  at  the  end  of  their  prayer- 
books  ;  while  others  are  highly  disgusted  at  the  innovation,  and 
stick  as  obstinately  to  the  Old  Version  as  to  the  old  style.  The 
tunes  themselves  have  also  been  new  set  to  jiggish  measures  ; 
and  the  sober  drawl,  which  used  to  accompany  the  two  first 
staves  of  the  hundredth  psalm,  with  the  Gloria  Patri,  is  now  split 


428  ENGLISH  PROSE 


into  as  many  quavers  as  an  Italian  air.  For  this  purpose  there 
is  in  every  country  an  itinerant  band  of  vocal  musicians,  who 
make  it  their  business  to  go  round  to  all  the  churches  in  their 
turns,  and,  after  a  prelude  vi^ith  the  pitch-pipe,  astonish  the 
audience  with  hymns  set  to  the  new  Winchester  measure,  and 
anthems  of  their  own  composing.  As  these  new-fashioned 
psalmodists  are  necessarily  made  up  of  young  men  and  maids, 
we  may  naturally  suppose  that  there  is  a  perfect  concord  and 
symphony  between  them  ;  and,  indeed,  I  have  known  it  happen, 
that  these  sweet  singers  have  more  than  once  been  brought  into 
disgrace,  by  too  close  an  unison  between  the  thorough-bass  and 
the  treble. 

It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  decide  which  is  looked  upon  as  the 
greatest  man  in  a  country  church,  the  parson  or  his  clerk.  The 
latter  is  most  certainly  held  in  higher  veneration,  where  the 
former  happens  to  be  only  a  poor  curate,  who  rides  post  every 
Sabbath  from  village  to  village,  and  mounts  and  dismounts  at 
the  church  door.  The  clerk's  office  is  not  only  to  tag  the  prayers 
with  an  amen,  or  usher  in  the  sermon  with  a  stave  ;  but  he  is 
also  the  universal  father  to  give  away  the  brides,  and  the  standing 
godfather  to  all  the  new-born  bantlings.  But  in  many  places 
there  is  a  still  greater  man  belonging  to  the  church  than  either 
the  parson  or  the  clerk  himself  The  person  I  mean  is  the 
squire,  who,  like  the  king,  may  be  styled  head  of  the  church  in 
his  own  parish.  If  the  benefice  be  in  his  own  gift,  the  vicar  is 
his  creature,  and  of  consequence  entirely  at  his  devotion  ;  or,  if 
the  care  of  the  church  be  left  to  a  curate,  the  Sunday  fees  of 
roast  beef  and  plum  pudding,  and  a  liberty  to  shoot  in  the  manor, 
will  bring  him  as  much  under  the  squire's  command  as  his  dogs 
and  horses.  For  this  reason  the  bell  is  often  kept  tolling,  and 
the  people  waiting  in  the  churchyard,  an  hour  longer  than  the 
usual  time  ;  nor  must  the  service  begin  till  the  squire  has  strutted 
up  the  aisle,  and  seated  himself  in  the  great  pew  in  the  chancel. 
The  length  of  the  sermon  is  also  measured  by  the  will  of  the 
squire,  as  formerly  by  the  hour-glass  :  and  I  know  one  parish 
where  the  preacher  has  always  the  complaisance  to  conclude  his 
discourse,  however  abruptly,  the  minute  that  the  squire  gives  the 
signal,  by  rising  up  after  his  nap. 

In  a  village  church,  the  squire's  lady,  or  the  vicar's  wife  are 
perhaps  the  only  females  that  are  stared  at  for  their  finery,  but 
in  the  larger  cities  and  towns,  where  the  newest  fashions  are  brought 


WILLIAM  COW  PER  429 


down  weekly  by  the  stage-coach  or  waggon,  all  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  most  topping  tradesmen  vie  with  each  other 
every  Sunday  in  the  eleg-ance  of  their  apparel.  I  could  even 
trace  their  gradations  in  their  dress,  according  to  the  opulence, 
the  extent,  and  the  distance  of  the  place  from  London.  I  was  at 
church  in  a  populous  city  in  the  North,  where  the  mace-bearer 
cleared  the  way  for  Mrs.  Mayoress,  who  came  sidling  after  him 
in  an  enormous  fan-hoop,  of  a  pattern  which  had  never  been  seen 
before  in  those  parts.  At  another  church,  in  a  corporation  town, 
I  saw  several  negligees  with  furbelowed  aprons,  which  had  long 
disputed  the  prize  of  superiority  ;  but  these  were  most  woefully 
eclipsed  by  a  burgess's  daughter,  just  come  from  London,  who 
appeared  in  a  trollope  or  slammerkin,  with  treble  ruffles  to  the 
cuffs,  pinked  and  gymped,  and  the  sides  of  the  petticoat  drawn 
up  in  festoons.  In  some  lesser  borough  towns,  the  contest,  I 
found,  lay  between  three  or  four  black  and  green  bibs  and 
aprons :  at  one,  a  grocer's  wife  attracted  our  eyes,  by  a  new- 
fashioned  cap,  called  a  Joan  ;  and,  at  another,  they  were  wholly 
taken  up  by  a  mercer's  daughter  in  a  nun's  hood. 

I  need  not  say  anything  of  the  behaviour  of  the  congregations 
in  these  more  polite  places  of  religious  resort  ;  as  the  same 
genteel  ceremonies  are  practised  there,  as  at  the  most  fashionable 
churches  in  town.  The  ladies,  immediately  on  their  entrance, 
breathe  a  pious  ejaculation  through  their  fan -sticks,  and  the 
beaux  veiy  gravely  address  themselves  to  the  haberdasher's  bills, 
glued  upon  the  linings  of  their  hats.  This  pious  duty  is  no 
sooner  performed,  than  the  exercise  of  bowing  and  curtseying 
succeeds  ;  the  locking  and  unlocking  of  the  pews  drowns  the 
reader's  voice  at  the  beginning  of  the  service,  and  the  rustling  of 
silks,  added  to  the  whispering  and  tittering  of  so  much  good 
company,  renders  him  totally  unintelligible  to  the  very  end  of  it. 
— I  am,  dear  Cousin,  yours,  etc.  T. 

(From  The  Comioisscicr,  No.   134.) 


A  VLSIT  FROM  A  CANDIDATE 

To  the  Rev.  John  Newton.  29///  March,  17S4. 

My   dkar    Friend — It    being   his  majesty's    pleasure   that    I 

should  yet  have  another  opportunity  to  write  before  he  dissolves 


430  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  parliament,  I  avail  myself  of  it  with  all  possible  alacrity.  I 
thank  you  for  your  last,  which  was  not  the  less  welcome  for 
coming,  like  an  extraordinary  gazette,  at  a  time  when  it  was  not 
expected. 

As  when  the  sea  is  uncommonly  agitated,  the  water  finds  its 
way  into  creeks  and  holes  of  rocks,  which  in  its  calmer  state  it 
never  reaches,  in  like  manner  the  effect  of  these  turbulent  times 
is  felt  even  at  Orchard  side,  where  in  general  we  live  as  un- 
disturbed by  the  political  element,  as  shrimps  or  cockles  that 
have  been  accidentally  deposited  in  some  hollow  beyond  the 
water  mark,  by  the  usual  dashing  of  the  waves.  We  were  sitting 
yesterday  after  dinner,  the  two  ladies  and  myself,  very  composedly 
and  without  the  least  apprehension  of  any  such  intrusion  in  our 
snug  parlour,  one  lady  knitting,  the  other  netting,  and  the  gentle- 
man winding  worsted,  when  to  our  unspeakable  surprise  a  mob 
appeared  before  the  window  ;  a  smart  rap  was  heard  at  the  door, 
the  boys  hallooed  and  the  maid  announced  Mr.  Grenville.  Puss 
was  unfortunately  let  out  of  her  box,  so  that  the  candidate,  with 
all  his  good  friends  at  his  heels,  was  refused  admittance  at  the 
grand  entry,  and  referred  to  the  back  door,  as  the  only  possible 
way  of  approach. 

Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  susceptible  of  affronts,  and 
would  rather,  I  suppose,  climb  in  at  a  window,  than  be  absolutely 
excluded.  In  a  minute,  the  yard,  the  kitchen,  and  the  parlour, 
were  filled.  Mr.  Grenville  advancing  toward  me  shook  me 
by  the  hand  with  a  degree  of  cordiality,  that  was  extremely 
seducing.  As  soon  as  he  and  as  many  more  as  could  find  chairs 
were  seated,  he  began  to  open  the  intent  of  his  visit.  I  told  him 
1  had  no  vote,  for  which  he  readily  gave  me  credit.  I  assured 
him  I  had  no  influence,  which  he  was  not  equally  inclined  to 
believe,  and  the  less,  no  doubt,  because  Mr.  Ashburner,  the 
draper,  addressing  himself  to  me  at  this  moment,  informed  me  I 
had  a  great  deal.  Supposing  that  I  could  not  be  possessed  of 
such  a  treasure  without  knowing  it  I  ventured  to  confirm  my  first 
assertion,  by  saying,  that  if  I  had  any  I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
imagine  where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it  consisted.  Thus  ended 
the  conference.  Mr.  Grenville  squeezed  me  by  the  hand  again, 
kissed  the  ladies,  and  withdrew.  He  kissed  likewise  the  maid  in 
the  kitchen,  and  seemed  upon  the  whole  a  most  loving,  kissing, 
kind-hearted  gentleman.  He  is  very  young,  genteel,  and  hand- 
some.     He  has  a  pair  of  very  good  eyes  in  his  head,  which  not 


WILLIAM  COWPER  431 

being  sufficient  as  it  should  seem  for  the  many  nice  and  difficult 
purposes  of  a  senator,  he  has  a  third  also,  which  he  wore  sus- 
pended by  a  ribbon  from  his  buttonhole.  The  boys  hallooed, 
the  dogs  barked,  Puss  scampered,  the  hero,  with  his  long  train  of 
obsequious  followers,  withdrew.  We  made  ourselves  very  merry 
with  the  adventure,  and  in  a  short  time  settled  into  our  former 
tranquillity,  never  probably  to  be  thus  interrupted  more.  I  thought 
myself,  however,  happy  in  being  able  to  affirm  truly  that  I  had 
not  that  influence  for  which  he  sued  ;  and  which  had  I  been 
possessed  of  it,  with  my  present  views  of  the  dispute  between  the 
Crown  and  the  Commons,  I  must  have  refused  him,  for  he  is  on 
the  side  of  the  former.  It  is  comfortable  to  be  of  no  conse- 
quence in  a  world  where  one  cannot  exercise  any  without 
disobliging  somebody.  The  town  however  seems  to  be  much  at 
his  service,  and  if  he  be  equally  successful  throughout  the  county, 
he  will  undoubtedly  gain  his  election.  Mr.  Ashburner  perhaps 
was  a  little  mortified,  because  it  was  evident  that  I  owed  the 
honour  of  this  visit  to  his  misrepresentation  of  my  importance. 
But  had  he  thought  proper  to  assure  Mr.  Grenville  that  I  had 
three  heads,  I  should  not  I  suppose  have  been  bound  to  produce 
them. 

Mr.  Scott,  who  you  say  was  so  much  admired  in  your  pulpit, 
would  be  equally  admired  in  his  own,  at  least  by  all  capable 
judges,  were  he  not  so  apt  to  be  angiy  with  his  congregation. 
This  hurts  him,  and  had  he  the  understanding  and  eloquence  of 
Paul  himself,  would  still  hurt  him.  He  seldom,  hardly  ever 
indeed,  preaches  a  gentle,  well-tempered  sermon,  but  I  hear  it 
highly  commended  ;  but  wamith  of  temper,  indulged  to  a  degree 
that  may  be  called  scolding,  defeats  the  end  of  preaching.  It  is 
a  misapplication  of  his  powers,  which  it  also  cripples,  and  teases 
away  his  hearers.  But  he  is  a  good  man,  and  may  perhaps  out- 
grow it. 

Many  thanks  for  the  worsted,  which  is  excellent.  We  are  as 
well  as  a  spring,  hardly  less  severe  than  the  severest  winter,  will 
give  us  leave  be.  With  our  united  love,  we  conclude  ourselves 
yours  and  Mrs.  Newton's  affectionate  and  faithful  W.  C. 

M.  U. 

(From  Letters^) 


432  ENGLISH  PROSE 


MR.   NEWTON   AS   INQUISITOR. 

To  the  Rev.  William  Unwin,  ^lney,  2^th  Sept.  1786. 

My  dear  William — So  interesting  a  concern  as  your  tutor- 
ship of  the  young  gentleman  in  question  cannot  have  been  so 
long  in  a  state  of  indecision  without  costing  you  much  anxiety. 
We  have  sympathised  with  you  under  it  all,  but  are  glad  to  be 
informed  that  the  long  delay  is  not  chargeable  upon  Mr.  Hornby. 
Bishops  are  KaKo,  Orjpia,  yacTTepes  dpyoi. — You  have  heard,  I 
know,  from  Lady  Hesketh,  and  she  has  exculpated  me  from  all 
imputation  of  wilful  silence,  from  which,  indeed,  of  yourself  you 
are  so  good  as  to  discharge  me,  in  consideration  of  my  present 
almost  endless  labour.  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  particular  on 
the  subject  of  Homer,  except  that  I  am  daily  advancing  in  the 
work  with  all  the  dispatch  that  a  due  concern  for  my  own  credit 
in  the  result  will  allow. 

You  have  had  your  troubles,  and  we  ours.  This  day  three 
weeks  your  mother  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Newton,  which  she 
has  not  yet  answered,  nor  is  likely  to  answer  hereafter.  It  gave 
us  both  much  concern,  but  her  more  than  me  ;  I  suppose  because 
my  mind  being  necessarily  occupied  in  my  work,  I  had  not  so 
much  leisure  to  browse  upon  the  wormwood  it  contained.  The 
purport  of  it  is  a  direct  accusation  of  me,  and  of  her  an  accusation 
implied,  that  we  have  both  deviated  into  forbidden  paths,  and 
lead  a  life  unbecoming  the  Gospel.  That  many  of  my  friends  in 
London  are  grieved,  and  the  simple  people  of  Olney  astonished  ; 
that  he  never  so  much  doubted  of  my  restoration  to  Christian 
privileges  as  now  ; — in  short,  that  I  converse  too  much  with 
people  of  the  world,  and  find  too  much  pleasure  in  doing  so. 
He  concludes  with  putting  your  mother  in  mind  that  there  is  still 
an  intercourse  between  London  and  Olney ;  by  which  he 
means  to  insinuate  that  we  cannot  offend  against  the  decorum 
that  we  are  bound  to  observe,  but  the  news  of  it  will  most 
certainly  be  conveyed  to  him.  We  do  not  at  all  doubt  it  ; — we 
never  knew  a  lie  hatched  at  Olney  that  waited  long  for  a  bearer  ; 
and  though  we  do  not  wonder  to  find  ourselves  made  the  subjects 
of  false  accusation  in  a  place  ever  fruitful  of  such  productions,  we 
do  and  must  wonder  a  little,  that  he  should  listen  to  them  with 
so  much  credulity.      I  say  this,  because  if  he  had  heard  only  the 


WILLIAM  COWPER  433 


truth,  or  had  believed  no  more  than  the  truth,  he  would  not,  I 
think,  have  found  either  me  censurable  or  your  mother.  And 
that  she  should  be  suspected  of  irregularities  is  the  more  wonder- 
ful (for  wonderful  it  would  be  at  any  rate),  because  she  sent  him 
not  long  before  a  letter  conceived  in  such  strains  of  piety  and 
spirituality  as  ought  to  have  convinced  him  that  she  at  least  was 
no  wanderer.  But  what  is  the  fact,  and  how  do  we  spend  our 
time  in  reality  ?  What  are  the  deeds  for  which  we  have  been 
represented  as  thus  criminal  ?  Our  present  course  of  life  differs 
in  nothing  from  that  which  we  have  both  held  these  thirteen 
years,  except  that,  after  great  civilities  shown  us,  and  many 
advances  made  on  the  part  of  the  Throcks,  we  visit  them.  That 
we  visit  also  at  Gayhurst  ;  that  we  have  frequently  taken  airings 
with  my  cousin  in  her  carriage  ;  and  that  I  have  sometimes  taken 
a  walk  with  her  on  a  Sunday  evening  and  sometimes  by  myself, 
which  however  your  mother  has  never  done.  These  are  the  only 
novelties  in  our  practice  ;  and  if  by  these  procedures,  so  inoffensive 
in  themselves,  we  yet  give  offence,  offence  must  needs  be  given. 
God  and  our  own  consciences  acquit  us,  and  we  acknowledge  no 
other  judges. 

The  two  families  with  whom  we  have  kicked  up  this  astonish- 
ing intercourse  are  as  harmless  in  their  conversation  and  manners 
as  can  be  found  anywhere.  And  as  to  my  poor  cousin,  the  only 
crime  that  she  is  guilty  of  against  the  people  of  Olney  is  that  she 
has  fed  the  hungry,  clothed  the  naked,  and  administered  comfort 
to  the  sick  ;  except  indeed  that,  by  her  great  kindness  she  has 
given  us  a  little  lift  in  point  of  condition  and  circumstances,  and 
has  thereby  excited  envy  in  some  who  have  not  the  knack  of 
rejoicing  in  the  prosperity  of  others.  And  this  I  take  to  be  the 
root  of  the  matter. 

My  dear  William,  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  teased 
your  nerves  and  spirits  with  this  disagreeable  theme,  had  not  Mr. 
Newton  talked  of  applying  to  you  for  particulars.  He  would 
have  done  it,  he  says,  when  he  saw  you  last,  but  had  not  time. 
You  are  now  qualified  to  inform  him  as  minutely  as  we  ourselves 
could  of  all  our  enormities  !  Adieu  ! 

Our  sincerest  love  to  yourself  and  yours,  Wm.  C. 

(From  the  Same.) 


VOL.   IV 


434  ENGLISH  PROSE 


BEAU   AND  THE  WATER-LILY. 

To  Lady  Hesketh.  '^he  Lodge,  z^hjunc,  1788. 

For  the  sake  of  a  longer  visit,  my  dearest  coz,  I  can  be  well 
content  to  wait.  The  country,  this  country  at  least,  is  pleasant 
at  all  times,  and  when  winter  is  come,  or  near  at  hand,  we  shall 
have  the  better  chance  of  being  snug.  I  know  your  passion  for 
retirement  indeed,  or  for  what  we  call  deedy  retirement,  and  the 
F — — s  intending  to  return  to  Bath  with  their  mother,  when  her 
visit  at  the  Hall  is  over,  you  will  then  find  here  exactly  the 
retirement  in  question.  I  have  made  in  the  orchard  the  best 
winter-walk  in  all  the  parish,  sheltered  from  the  east,  and  from 
the  north-east,  and  open  to  the  sun,  except  at  his  rising,  all  the 
day.  Then  we  will  have  Homer  and  Don  Quixote  :  and  then  we 
will  have  saunter  and  chat,  and  one  laugh  more  before  we  die. 
Our  orchard  is  alive  with  creatures  of  all  kinds  ;  poultry  of  every 
denomination  swarms  in  it,  and  pigs,  the  drollest  in  the  world  ! 

I  rejoice  that  we  have  a  cousin  Charles  also,  as  well  as  a 
cousin  Henry,  who  has  had  the  address  to  win  the  good  likings 
of  the  Chancellor.  May  he  fare  the  better  for  it !  As  to  myself, 
I  have  long  since  ceased  to  have  any  expectations  from  that 
quarter.  Yet  if  he  were  indeed  mortified  as  you  say  (and  no 
doubt  you  have  particular  reasons  for  thinking  so),  and  repented 
to  that  degree  of  his  hasty  exertions  in  favour  of  the  present 
occupant,  who  can  tell  ?  he  wants  neither  means  nor  management, 
but  can  easily  at  some  future  period  redress  the  evil,  if  he  chooses 
to  do  it.  But  in  the  mean  time  life  steals  away,  and  shortly 
neither  he  will  be  in  circumstances  to  do  me  a  kindness,  nor  I  to 
receive  one  at  his  hands.  Let  him  make  haste  therefore  or  he 
will  die  a  promise  in  my  debt,  which  he  will  never  be  able  to 
perform.  Your  communications  on  this  subject  are  as  safe  as 
you  can  wish  them.  We  divulge  nothing  but  what  might  appear 
in  the  magazine,  nor  that  without  great  consideration. 

I  must  tell  you  a  feat  of  my  dog  Beau.  Walking  by  the  river 
side,  I  observed  some  water-lilies  floating  at  a  distance  from  the 
bank.  They  are  a  large  white  flower,  with  an  orange  coloured 
eye,  very  beautiful.  I  had  a  desire  to  gather  one,  and  having 
your  long  cane  in  my  hand,  by  the  help  of  it  endeavoured  to 
bring   one  of  them  within  my  reach.      But  the   attempt   proved 


WILLIAM  COWPEK  435 


vain,  and  I  walked  forward.  Beau  had  all  the  while  observed 
me  very  attentively.  Returning  soon  after  toward  the  same 
place,  I  observed  him  plunge  into  the  river  while  I  was  about 
forty  yards  distant  from  him  ;  and  when  I  had  nearly  reached 
the  spot,  he  swam  to  land  with  a  lily  in  his  mouth,  which  he 
came  and  laid  at  my  foot. 

Mr.  Rose,  whom  I  have  mentioned  to  you  as  a  visitor  of  mine 
for  the  first  time  soon  after  you  left  us,  writes  me  word  that  he 
has  seen  my  ballads  against  the  slave-mongers  but  not  in  print. 
Where  he  met  with  them,  I  know  not.  Mr.  Bull  begged  hard 
for  leave  to  print  them  at  Newport-Pagnel,  and  I  refused,  thinking 
that  it  would  be  wrong  to  anticipate  the  nobility,  gentry,  and 
others,  at  whose  pressing  instance  I  composed  them,  in  their 
design  to  print  them.  But  perhaps  I  need  not  have  been  so 
squeamish  :  for  the  opportunity  to  publish  them  in  London  seems 
now  not  only  ripe,  but  rotten.  I  am  well  content.  There  is  but 
one  of  them  with  which  I  am  myself  satisfied,  though  I  have 
heard  them  all  well  spoken  of.  But  there  are  very  few  things  of 
my  own  composition,  that  I  can  endure  to  read,  when  they  have 
been  written  a  month,  though  at  first  they  seem  to  me  to  be  all 
perfection. 

Mrs.  Unwin,  who  has  been  much  the  happier  since  the  time 
of  your  return  hither  has  been  in  some  sort  settled,  begs  me  to 
make  her  kindest  remembrance.      Yours,  my  dear,  most  truly, 

W.  C. 


(From  the  Same.) 


JOSEPH    PRIESTLEY 


[Joseph  Priestley  was  born  near  Leeds  in  1733,  was  educated  at  Daventry, 
and  became  in  1755  minister  at  Needham  Market,  Suffoll<,  and  from  1758-61 
minister  and  schoolmaster  at  Nantwich.  From  1761-67  he  was  teacher  at 
Warrington  Dissenters'  Academy,  where  he  foimd  time  to  write  on  grammar, 
biography,  and  education,  as  well  as  to  gain  the  title  F.  R.S.  for  a  book  on 
Electricity.  In  1767  he  went  to  Leeds,  first  to  a  chapel  and  then  as  librarian 
to  Lord  Shelburne  (1773-80).  In  1768  he  wrote  on  Civil  Governmctit,  in  1770 
on  Perspective.  In  1773  he  got  the  Copley  Medal  of  the  Royal  Society  for  valu- 
able discoveries  in  regard  to  fixed  air.  In  1776  he  published  discoveries  on 
Respiration.  Books  on  Natural  and  Revealed  Religion  (1772-74),  and  on 
philosophy  and  science  followed  fast  ;  and  his  profession  of  materialism 
(Matter  and  Spirit,  1777)  and  belief  in  "  Philosophical  Necessity"  (appendi.x 
to  Matter  and  Spirit),  and  perhaps  also  his  devotion  to  Hartley,  estranged 
him  from  Shelburne.  In  1780  accordingly  he  left  Leeds  and  settled  in 
Birmingham  at  his  old  clerical  duties.  There,  amongst  other  things,  he  wrote 
on  the  History  of  the  Corruptions  of  Christianity  (1782),  and  used  the 
book  to  draw  Gibbon  into  a  correspondence,  the  publication  of  which  by 
Priestley  was  no  doubt  improper,  and  certainly  imprudent,  but  as  the  means  of 
preserving  a  masterpiece  of  vituperation  [Gibbon's  Letters,  No.  c.xliv.)  hardly 
now  to  be  regretted. 

Priestley,  at  Birmingham,  was  a  militant  dissenter  and  Unitarian  ;  he 
w.as  also  a  warm  defender  of  the  French  Revolution.  Accordingly  in 
the  riots  of  14th  and  15th  July  1791  his  house  was  wrecked  and  his 
books  and  instruments  were  destroyed  or  stolen.  The  story  is  well  told 
in  the  New  A?tnual  Register,  ijgi  (History,  pp.  210-3).  He  was  only 
one  sufferer  out  of  several  ;  and  the  rioters  were  put  on  their  trial  and  two  of 
them  hung.  But  Priestley  left  Piirniingham  to  succeed  his  fpiend  Richard 
Price  at  Hackney  ;  and  finally,  in  1794,  he  left  England  for  Northumberland, 
Pennsylvania,  where  in  1804  he  died.  His  works  fill  nearly  eighty  volumes, 
and  he  left  an  autobiograpby  and  correspondence,  published  soon  after  his 
death.] 

Priestley's  services  to  science  are  his  most  considerable  achieve- 
ment. Gibbon  wrote  to  him  :  "  Give  me  leave  to  convey  to  your 
ear  the  almost  unanimous  and  not  offensive  wish  of  the  philosophic 
world  that  you  would  confine  your  talents  and  industry  to  those 


438  ENGLISH  PROSE 


sciences  in  which  real  and  useful  improvements  can  be  made." 
But  he  was  not  only  a  great  chemist.  His  sturdy  force  of  char- 
acter made  him  a  man  of  influence  in  England.  His  ideas  of 
education  were  broad  and  enlightened  ;  he  laid  down  (and  indeed 
had  taught)  all  the  main  articles  of  what  is  now  called  the 
"  education  of  the  Citizen."  He  would  supplant,  or  at  least 
supplement,  the  old  classical  training  by  a  course  of  law  and 
history,  economic  and  demographical  principles,  and  not  least  an 
acquaintance  with  political  and  local  institutions. 

In  philosophy  he  followed  David  Hartley  in  regarding  the 
association  of  ideas  as  the  key  to  psychological  difficulties  ; 
indeed  he  went  beyond  Hartley  in  becoming  materialist,  while  still 
like  Hartley  remaining  theist.  He  praised  Jonathan  Edwards  ;  of 
philosophical  necessity,  as  opposed  to  freedom  of  the  will,  he  says, 
"  There  is  no  truth  of  which  I  have  less  doubt "  {Examinatiofi  of 
Reid,  p.  169).  He  is  said  by  Bentham  to  have  suggested  to  him 
(by  his  Civil  Govcrnmetif,  1768)  the  principle  of  the  greatest 
happiness  of  the  greatest  number.  In  his  criticisms  of  the 
common-sense  philosophy  of  Reid,  Beattie,  and  Oswald,  he  treats 
his  opponents  with  something  of  the  arrogance  once  supposed  to  be 
characteristic  of  the  savant.  But  these  were  times  when  men  had 
not  learned  to  express  disagreement  in  an  agreeable  manner.  It 
must  be  said  that  while  his  theological  controversy  with  Bishop 
Horsley  was  equally  warm  it  was  more  temperate  in  terms. 

Though,  pace  Bentham,  there  is  nothing  new  in  Priestley's  views 
of  Civil  Govermncrit,  or  in  his  Letters  to  Biirke  on  the  Fre7ich 
Revolution.,  his  political  writings  have  features  of  some  historical 
interest.  In  the  Civil  Goz'ernjjient  he  makes  clear  the  distinction 
between  political  liberty  and  civil  liberty.  In  the  Letters,  he 
pleads  for  French  reformers  in  the  language  of  an  English  dissenter 
who  has  suffered  through  intolerance  and  injustice  in  his  own 
country,  and  there  is  as  much  said  about  England  and  America 
as  about  Frhnce. 

The  style  of  this  author  is  adequate  to  his  thought.  There  is 
little  flexibility  or  vivacity  ;  the  diction  is  heavy,  and  occasionally 
the  preacher  bestows  on  us  the  tediousness  and  prolixity  too 
frequently  associated  with  sermons.  He  has  usually  something 
to  prove,  and,  if  he  does  not  prove  it,  the  fault  is  not  in  the 
manner  but  in  the  matter  of  statement. 

J.    BONAR. 


OF  CORRECTION 

It  is  a  maxim  with  many,  that  no  parent,  or  tutor,  should  correct 
a  child  except  when  he  is  perfectly  cool,  and  that  to  correct  with 
anger  defeats  the  purpose  of  it  ;  and  in  confirmation  of  this  they 
cjuote  the  example  of  one  of  the  old  philosophers,  who  being 
asked  why  he  did  not  correct  his  slave,  who  had  given  him  just 
provocation,  replied,  "  Because  I  am  angry."  It  appears  to  me, 
however,  that  this  maxim  may  be  very  easily  pushed  too  far,  and 
by  that  the  proper  effect  of  discipline  be  lost. 

Young  persons  seldom  transgress  their  duty  without  being 
conscious  of  it,  and  without  being  sensible,  at  least  after  some 
time,  that  they  deserve  correction.  They  have  also  a  general 
notion  of  the  degree  of  their  demerit,  and  consecjuently  of  the 
degree  of  provocation  which  it  must  give  their  parent  or  tutor ; 
and  the  disposition  to  transgress  for  the  future  is  best  prevented 
by  their  just  expectations  being  answered,  i.c.^  by  their  being 
actually  received  by  their  parent  or  tutor,  with  what  degree  of 
displeasure,  and  the  effects  of  it,  which  they  are  themselves 
sensible,  or  which  they  may  be  made  sensible,  that  they  deserve. 
But  they  will  equally  despise  their  tutor,  if  the  displeasure  which 
he  expresses  be  either  too  little,  or  too  great,  for  the  occasion. 
In  fact,  they  judge  of  him  by  themselves,  and  they  have  no 
notion  either  of  being  offended  without  being  angry,  or  of  being 
angry  without  correcting"  for  the  offence,  and  before  their  anger 
be  subsided. 

Besides,  it  is  not  the  remembrance  of  the  mere  pain  which 
correction  gives  them  that  tends  to  check  their  disposition  to 
repeat  the  offence,  so  much  as  the  fear  of  the  displeasure,  which 
they  foresee  their  behaviour  will  excite  in  their  tutor  against 
them  ;  and  it  is  not  possible  to  express  displeasure  with  sufficient 
force,  especially  to  a  child,  when  a  man  is  perfectly  cool  ;  and 


440  ENGLISH  PROSE 


mere  reproof,  without  sufficient  marks  of  displeasure  and  emotion, 
affects  a  child  very  little,  and  is  soon  forgotten. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  upon  the  first  intimation  of  an 
offence,  a  man  is  apt  to  conceive  of  it  as  much  more  heinous 
than  it  really  is,  and  consecjuently  to  be  inflamed  beyond  due 
bounds.  We  ought,  therefore,  to  wait  till  we  perfectly  under- 
stand the  nature  of  the  offence,  and  have  considered  the 
punishment  due  to  it  ;  but  to  wait  longer  than  is  necessary  for 
this  purpose  is  to  refine  beyond  the  dictates  of  nature  ;  which, 
however  specious  in  theory,  is  seldom  found  to  answer  any  good 
end  in  practice. 

(From  ObscrTutions  on  Editcaiioji.) 


RIDICULE  AS  A  TEST  OF   FAITH 

Had  I  been  acquainted  with  these  new  principles,  I  might  have 
saved  myself  a  good  deal  of  trouble  ;  but  I  am  apprehensive  that 
I  should  hardly  have  escaped  a  great  deal  of  ridicule  ;  and  we 
ought  not  to  forget  that  ridicule  has  been  deemed  the  test  of 
truth  as  well  as  this  new  common  sense.  I  think  with  equal 
reason,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  the  reign  of  this  new  usurper 
will  not  be  much  longer  than  that  of  his  predecessor,  to  whom  he 
is  very  nearly  related. 

In  this  some  may  think  that  I  only  mean  to  be  jocular,  but 
really  I  am  serious.  Why  was  ridicule  ever  thought  to  be  the 
test  of  truth,  but  because  the  things  at  which  we  can  laugh  were 
supposed  to  be  so  absurd,  that  their  falsehood  was  self-evident ; 
so  that  there  was  no  occasion  to  examine  any  further  ?  We  were 
supposed  to  feel  them  to  be  false  ;  and  what  is  a  feeling  but  the 
affection  of  a  sense  ?  In  reality,  therefore,  this  new  doctrine  of 
common  sense  being  the  standard  of  truth  is  no  other  than 
ridicule  being  the  standard  of  truth.  The  words  are  different 
but  not  the  things.  I  should  be  glad  to  see  so  acute  a  meta- 
physician as  Dr.  Reid,  so  fine  a  writer  as  Dr.  Reattie,  and,  to 
adopt  Dr.  Beattie's  compliment,  so  elegant  an  author  as  Dr. 
Oswald,  separately  employed  to  ascertain  the  precise  difference 
between  these  two  schemes. 

In  my  opinion  the  chief  difference,  besides  what  I  have  said 
above,  consists  in  this,  that  the  one  may  be  called  the  sense  of 


JOS  Em  PRIESTLEY  441 

truth,  and  the  other  the  sense  of  falsehood.  There  is  also  some 
doubt  whether  Shaftesbury  was  really  in  earnest  in  proposing 
ridicule  as  the  test  of  truth.  Many  think  that  he  could  never  be 
so  absurd.  Whereas  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  this 
triumvirate  of  authors  are  perfectly  serious.  There  is  however 
another  difference  that  will  strongly  recommend  the  claims  of 
common  sense  in  preference  to  those  of  ridicule,  which  is,  that 
this  was  advanced  in  support  of  infidelity,  but  that  in  support  of 
religion.  But  I  should  think  that  the  greater  weight  we  have  to 
support,  the  stronger  buttresses  we  should  use. 

(From  Remarks  oti  Dr.  Deattie's  Essay.) 


EFFECTS  OF  A  CODE  OF  EDUCATION 

Now  I  appeal  to  any  person  whether  any  plan  of  education, 
which  has  yet  been  put  in  execution  in  this  kingdom,  be  so 
perfect  as  that  the  establishing  of  it  by  authority  would  not 
obstruct  the  great  ends  of  education  ;  or  even  whether  the  united 
genius  of  man  could,  at  present,  form  so  perfect  a  plan.  Every 
man  who  is  experienced  in  the  business  of  education  well  knows, 
that  the  art  is  in  its  infancy,  but  advancing,  it  is  hoped,  apace 
to  a  state  of  manhood.  In  this  condition,  it  requires  the  aid  of 
every  circumstance  favourable  to  its  natural  growth,  and  dreads 
nothing  so  much  as  being  confined  and  cramped  by  the  un- 
seasonable hand  of  power.  To  put  it  (in  its  present  imperfect 
state)  into  the  hands  of  the  civil  magistrate,  in  order  to  fix  the 
mode  of  it,  would  be  like  fixing  the  dress  of  a  child,  and 
forbidding  its  clothes  ever  to  be  made  wider  or  larger. 

Manufacturers  and  artists  of  several  kinds  already  complain 
of  the  obstruction  which  is  given  to  their  arts,  by  the  injudicious 
acts  of  former  parliaments  ;  and  it  is  the  object  of  our  wisest 
statesmen  to  get  these  obstructions  removed,  by  the  repeal  of 
those  acts.  I  wish  it  could  not  be  said,  that  the  business  of 
education  is  already  under  too  many  legal  restraints.  Let  these 
be  removed,  and  a  few  more  fair  experiments  made  of  the 
different  methods  of  conducting  it,  before  the  legislature  think 
proper  to  interfere  any  more  with  it,  and  by  that  time,  it  is 
hoped,  they  will  see  no  reason  to  interfere  at  all.  The  business 
would  be  conducted  to  much  better  purpose,  even   in  favour  of 


442  ENGLISH  PROSE 


their  own  views,  if  those  views  were  just  and  honourable,  than  it 
would  be  under  any  arbitrary  regulations  whatever. 

To  show  this  scheme  of  an  established  method  of  education  in 
a  clearer  point  of  light,  let  us  imagine  that  what  is  now  proposed 
had  been  carried  into  execution  some  centuries  before  this  time. 
For  no  reason  can  be  assigned  for  fixing  any  mode  of  education 
at  present,  which  might  not  have  been  made  use  of,  with  the  same 
appearance  of  reason,  for  fixing  another  approved  method  a 
thousand  years  ago.  Suppose  Alfred,  when  he  founded  the 
University  of  Oxford,  had  made  it  impossible,  that  the  method  of 
instruction  used  in  his  time  should  ever  have  been  altered. 
Excellent  as  that  method  might  have  been  for  the  time  in  which 
it  was  instituted,  it  would  now  have  been  the  worst  method  that 
is  practised  in  the  world.  Suppose  the  number  of  the  arts  and 
sciences,  with  the  manner  of  teaching  them,  had  been  fixed  in  this 
kingdom,  before  the  revival  of  letters  and  of  the  arts,  it  is  plain 
they  could  never  have  arrived  at  their  present  advanced  state 
among  us.  We  should  not  have  had  the  honour  to  lead  the  way 
in  the  most  noble  discoveries,  in  the  mathematics,  philosophy, 
astronomy,  and  I  may  add  divinity  too.  And  for  the  same 
reason,  were  such  an  establishment  to  take  place  in  the  present 
age,  it  would  prevent  all  great  improvements  in  futurity. 

I  may  add,  in  this  place,  that  if  we  argue  from  the  analogy  of 
education  to  other  arts  which  are  most  similar  to  it,  we  can  never 
expect  to  see  human  nature,  about  which  it  is  employed,  brought 
to  perfection,  but  in  consequence  of  indulging  unbounded  liberty, 
and  even  caprice  in  conducting  it.  The  power  of  nature  in  pro- 
ducing plants  cannot  be  shown  to  advantage,  but  in  all  possible 
circumstances  of  culture.  The  richest  colours,  the  most  fragrant 
scents  and  the  most  exquisite  flavours,  which  our  present  gardens 
and  orchards  exhibit,  would  never  have  been  known,  if  florists  and 
gardeners  had  been  confined  in  the  processes  of  cultivation  ;  nay 
if  they  had  not  been  allowed  the  utmost  licentiousness  of  fancy  in 
the  exercise  of  their  arts.  Many  of  the  finest  productions  of 
modern  gardening  have  been  the  result  of  casual  experiment, 
perhaps  of  undesigned  deviation  from  established  rules.  Obser- 
vations of  a  similar  nature  may  be  made  on  the  methods  of 
breeding  cattle,  and  training  animals  of  all  kinds.  And  why 
should  the  rational  part  of  the  creation  be  deprived  of  that 
opportunity  of  diversifying  and  improving  itself,  which  the 
vegetable  and  animal  world  enjoy  ? 


JOSEPH  rRIESTLE  V  443 

From  new,  and  seemingly  irregular,  methods  of  education, 
perhaps  something  extraordinary  and  uncommonly  great  may 
spring.  At  least  there  would  be  a  fair  chance  for  such  produc- 
tions ;  and  if  something  odd  and  eccentric  should,  now  and  then, 
arise  from  this  unbounded  liberty  of  education,  the  various  busi- 
ness of  human  life  may  afford  proper  spheres  for  such  eccentric 
geniuses. 

Education,  taken  in  its  most  extensive  sense,  is  properly  that 
which  makes  the  man.  One  method  of  education,  therefore, 
would  only  produce  one  kind  of  men  ;  but  the  great  excellence  of 
human  nature  consists  in  the  variety  of  which  it  is  capal^le. 
Instead  then  of  endeavouring,  by  uniform  and  fixed  systems  of 
education,  to  keep  mankind  always  the  same,  let  us  give  free 
scope  to  everything  which  may  bid  fair  for  introducing-  more 
variety  among  us.  The  various  character  of  the  Athenians  was 
certainly  preferable  to  the  uniform  character  of  the  Spartans,  or 
to  any  uniform  national  character  whatever. 

Is  it  not  universally  considered  as  an  advantage  to  England, 
that  it  contains  so  great  a  variety  of  original  characters  ?  And  is 
it  not  on  this  account  preferred  to  France,  Spain,  or  Italy  ? 

Uniformity  is  the  characteristic  of  the  brute  creation.  Among 
them  every  species  of  bird  build  their  nests  with  the  same 
materials,  and  in  the  same  form  ;  the  genius  and  disposition  of 
one  individual  is  that  of  all  ;  and  it  is  only  the  education  which 
men  give  them  that  raises  any  of  them  much  above  others. 
But  it  is  the  glory  of  human  nature,  that  the  operations  of  reason, 
though  variable,  and  by  no  means  infallible,  are  capable  of 
infinite  improvement.  We  come  into  the  world  worse  provided 
than  any  of  the  brutes,  and  for  a  year  or  two  of  our  lives,  many 
of  them  go  far  beyond  us  in  intellectual  accomplishments.  Rut 
when  their  faculties  are  at  a  full  stand,  and  their  enjoyments  in- 
capable of  variety  or  increase,  our  intellectual  powers  are  grow- 
ing apace ;  we  are  perpetually  deriving  happiness  from  new 
sources,  and  even  before  we  leave  this  world  are  capable  of  tasting 
the  felicity  of  angels. 

Have  we,  then,  so  little  sense  of  the  proper  excellence  of  our 
natures,  and  of  the  views  of  Divine  Providence  in  our  formation,  as 
to  catch  at  a  poor  advantage  adapted  to  the  lower  nature  of 
brutes  ?  Rather,  let  us  hold  on  in  the  course  in  which  the  Divine 
P>eing  Himself  has  put  us,  by  giving  reason  its  full  play,  and 
throwing  off  the  fetters  which  short-sighted  and  ill-judging  men 


444  ENGLISH  PROSE 


have  hung  upon  it.  Though,  in  this  course,  we  be  hable  to  more 
extravagancies  than  brutes,  governed  by  bhnd  but  unerring  instinct, 
or  than  men  whom  mistaken  systems  of  poHcy  have  made  as 
uniform  in  their  sentiments  and  conduct  as  the  brutes,  we  shall 
be  in  the  way  to  attain  a  degree  of  perfection  and  happiness  of 
which  they  can  have  no  idea. 

However,  as  men  are  first  animals  before  they  can  be  properly 
termed  rational  creatures,  and  the  analogies  of  individuals  extend 
to  societies,  a  principle  something  resembling  the  instinct  of 
animals  may,  perhaps,  suit  mankind  in  their  infant  state ;  but 
when  we  advance  in  the  arts  of  life,  let  us,  as  far  as  we  are 
able,  assert  the  native  freedom  of  our  souls,  and,  after  having  been 
servilely  governed  like  brutes,  aspire  to  the  noble  privilege  of 
governing  ourselves  like  men. 

If  it  may  have  been  necessary  to  establish  something  by  law 
concerning  education,  that  necessity  grows  less  every  day,  and 
encourages  us  to  relax  the  bonds  of  authority,  rather  than  bind 
them  faster. 

Secondly,  this  scheme  of  an  established  mode  of  education 
would  be  prejudicial  to  the  great  ends  of  civil  society.  The  great 
object  of  civil  society  is  the  happiness  of  the  members  of  it,  in  the 
perfect  and  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  the  more  important  of  our 
natural  rights,  for  the  sake  of  which  we  voluntarily  give  up  others 
of  less  consequence  to  us.  But  whatever  be  the  blessings  of  civil 
society,  they  may  be  bought  too  dear.  It  is  certainly  possible  to 
sacrifice  too  much,  at  least  more  than  is  necessary  to  be  sacrificed 
for  them,  in  order  to  produce  the  greatest  sum  of  happiness  in  the 
community.  Else  why  do  we  complain  of  tyrannical  and  oppres- 
sive government  ?  Is  it  not  the  meaning  of  all  complaints  of  this 
kind  that  in  such  governments,  the  subjects  are  deprived  of  their 
most  important  natural  rights,  without  an  equivalent  recompense  ; 
that  all  the  valuable  ends  of  civil  government  might  be  effectually 
secured,  and  the  members  of  particular  states  be  much  happier 
upon  the  whole,  if  they  did  not  lie  under  those  restrictions  ? 

Now  of  all  the  sources  of  happiness  and  enjoyment  in  human 
life,  the  domestic  relations  are  the  most  constant  and  copious. 
With  our  wives  and  children  we  necessarily  pass  the  greatest 
part  of  our  lives.  The  connections  of  friendship  are  slight  in 
comparison  of  this  intimate  domestic  union.  Views  of  interest  or 
ambition  may  divide  the  nearest  friends,  but  our  wives  and  chil- 
dren are,  in  general,  inseparably  connected  with  us  and  attached  to 


JOSEPH  PRIESTLE  Y  445 

us.      With  them  all  our  joys  are  doubled,   and   in   their  affection 

and    assiduity    we    find    consolation   under   all    the  troubles    and 

disquietudes  of  life.      For  the  enjoyments  which  result  from  this 

most  delightful  intercourse,  all  mankind;  in  all  ages,  have  been 

ready  to    sacrifice  everything  ;    and   for  the  interruption  of  this 

intercourse    no    compensation    whatever    can   be   made  by  man. 

What  then  can  be  more  justly  alarming  to  a  man  who  has  a  true 

taste  for  happiness,  than  either  that  the  choice  of  his  wife,  or  the 

education  of  his  children  should  be  under  the  directions  of  persons 

who  have  no  particular  knowledge  of  him,  or  particular  affection 

for  him,  and  whose  views  and  maxims  he  might   utterly  dislike  ? 

What  prospect  of  happiness  could  a  man  have  with  such  a  wife, 

or  such  children  ?  ,„  r^-    ■,  t  l     . 

(rrom  Livtl  Ltoerty.) 


SAMUEL  HORSLEY 


[Samuel  Horsley,  1733-1806,  bishop  successively  of  St.  David's,  Rochester, 
and  St.  Asaph,  was  born  in  the  parish  of  St.  Martin's  in  the  Fields,  London, 
where  his  father  was  lecturer.  He  appears  to  have  received  a  home  education 
until  his  admission  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge,  in  1751.  When  he  received 
Holy  Orders  he  became  his  father's  curate  at  Newington,  and  succeeded  to 
the  living  on  his  father's  resignation  in  1759.  In  1767  he  was  elected  Fellow 
of  the  Royal  Society,  and  in  1768  he  accompanied  Heneage  Finch,  Lord 
Guernsey,  to  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  as  private  tutor.  In  1774  he  was  presented 
by  his  pupil's  father  to  the  rectory  of  Albury,  in  Surrey,  and  in  1777  he  became 
domestic  chaplain  to  the  Bishop  of  London,  Dr.  Lowth,  and  Prebendary  of 
St.  Paul's.  In  1781  he  was  appointed  Archdeacon  of  St.  Albans  and  in  1777 
he  received  through  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow  a  prebend  at  Gloucester.  In 
1788  he  was  raised  to  the  Bench  as  Bishop  of  St.  David's,  and  in  1793  he 
was  translated  to  Rochester,  holding  with  that  see,  as  several  others  had  done, 
the  Deanery  of  Westminster.  In  1802  he  returned  to  Wales  as  Bishop  of 
St.  Asaph.  He  was  an  energetic  and  useful  prelate  in  both  his  Welsh  dio- 
ceses, as  well  as  in  his  English  one.  He  was  twice  married,  and  left  one  son 
by  his  first  wife,  who  became  an  eminent  clergyman  in  the  Episcopal  Church 
of  Scotland,  in  the  measures  for  the  rehef  of  which  Bishop  Horsley  took  a 
leading  part  in  the  House  of  Lords,  He  died  at  Brighton,  4th  October 
1806.] 

As  a  master  of  English  prose  Samuel  Horsley  had  few  equals 
in  his  own  day.  The  reputation  he  gained  among  his  contempo- 
raries and  their  immediate  successors  was  quite  out  of  proportion 
to  the  bulk  of  his  writings,  but  not  at  all  out  of  proportion  to  their 
merits.  He  was  in  fact  regarded  in  the  early  part  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  as,  in  point  of  abilities  and  attainments,  far  above 
all  other  writers  and  speakers  on  the  side  of  the  Church.  Men  of 
the  most  widely  differing  sentiments  agree  in  this.  Thus  Bishop 
Jebb,  the  high  churchman,  calls  him  "  our  ablest  modern  prelate  ; " 
Dean  Isaac  Milner,  the  low  churchman,  "the  first  Episcopal 
authority  (if  learning,  wisdom,  and  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures 
be  any   foundation    for  authority) '"'  ;    Bishop    John    Milner,    the 


448  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Roman  Catholic,  "the  Ught  and  glory  of  the  Established  Church"; 
and  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  "  the  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its 
clan,  with  relation  to  the  learned  teachers  of  our  Church."  A 
perusal  of  Bishop  Horsley's  writings  will  quite  bear  out  this 
testimony  from  different  quarters.  He  writes  in  a  remarkably 
pure,  luminous,  and  dignified  style  ;  his  matter  is  weighty,  his 
argumentative  power  convincing,  his  learning  profound,  and  his 
satire,  though  always  kept  within  the  bounds  of  decency  and 
courtesy,  most  cutting.  There  is  a  robustness  and  manliness 
about  his  tone  of  mind  which  is  reflected  in  his  style  ;  he  takes  a 
lofty  line,  which  some  might  think  supercilious,  but  it  is  certainly 
justified  by  his  merits  ;  it  is  that  of  a  judge  summing  up,  not  that 
of  an  advocate  pleading  his  cause.  His  sentiments  are  always 
those  of  the  marked  high  churchman,  and  in  many  points  he 
anticipates  the  men  of  the  (3xford  movement.  His  sermons  are 
the  finest  specimens  of  pulpit  eloquence  which  the  age  produced, 
and  they  arc  still  unrivalled  in  their  way.  He  was  a  most  for- 
midable antagonist  in  controversy,  and  completely  demolished 
Dr.  Priestley,  though  the  latter  was  a  very  able  man. — Horsley's 
"Charges,"  "  Remarks,"  and  "  Letters,"  on  the  subject  of  Unitarian- 
ism,  besides  being  a  powerful  defence  of  orthodoxy,  are  also  fine 
specimens  of  English  literature.  To  judge  from  the  speeches 
which  are  found  in  the  pages  of  Hansard,  Bishop  Horsley  must 
have  been  even  more  effective  as  an  orator  than  as  a  writer.  His 
range  of  knowledge  was  by  no  means  confined  to  theology  ;  but 
his  scientific  and  philosophical  writings  scarcely  afford  scope  for 
the  exhibition  of  his  powers  as  a  writer  of  English  prose  ;  and 
therefore  the  specimens  here  given  are  all  drawn  from  his 
theological  works. 

I.  H.  Overton. 


THE   PLATONIC  AND  CHRISTIAN   TRINITY 

The  inquiry  becomes  more  important,  when  it  is  discovered 
that  these  notions  were  by  no  means  peculiar  to  the  Platonic 
school ;  that  the  Platonists  pretended  to  be  no  more  than  the 
expositors  of  a  more  ancient  doctrine,  which  is  traced  from  Plato 
to  Parmenides,  from  Parmenides  to  his  masters  of  the  Pythagorean 
sect,  from  the  Pythagoreans  to  Orpheus  the  earliest  of  the  Grecian 
mystagogues,  from  Orpheus  to  the  secret  lore  of  the  Egyptian 
priests,  in  which  the  foundations  of  the  Orphic  Theology  were 
laid.  Similar  notions  of  a  triple  principle  prevailed  in  the 
Persian  and  Chaldean  theology ;  and  vestiges  even  of  the 
worship  of  a  Trinity  were  discernible  in  the  Roman  superstition 
in  a  very  late  age.  This  worship  the  Romans  had  received  from 
their  Trojan  ancestors.  For  the  Trojans  brought  it  with  them 
into  Italy  from  Phiygia.  In  Phrygia  it  was  introduced  by 
Dardanus  so  early  as  the  ninth  century  after  Noah's  flood. 
Dardanus  carried  it  with  him  from  Samothrace  ;  where  the 
personages,  that  were  the  objects  of  it,  were  worshipped  under 
the  Hebrew  name  of  the  Cabirim.  Who  these  Cabirim  might 
be  has  been  the  matter  of  unsuccessful  inquiry  to  many  learned 
men.  The  utmost  that  is  known  with  certainty  is,  that  they  were 
originally  Three,  and  were  called  by  way  of  eminence,  the  Great 
or  Mighty  ones  :  for  that  is  the  import  of  the  Hebrew  name. 
And  of  the  like  import  is  their  Latin  appellation,  Penates.  Dii 
per  qiios  penitus  spiranius,  per  qtios  habeinus  corpus.,  per  qtcos 
rationem  aithni  possidenius.  Dii  qui  sunt  intrinsecus  atque  i?t 
intimis  penetralibus  cosli.  Thus  the  joint  worship  of  Jupiter, 
Juno,  and  Minerva,  the  Triad  of  the  Roman  Capitol,  is  traced  to 
that  of  the  three  mighty  ones  in  Samothrace  ;  which  was 
established  in  that  island,  at  what  precise  time  it  is  impossible  to 
determine,  but  earlier,  if  Eusebius  may  be  credited,  than  the  days 
of  Abraham. 

VOL.  IV  2  G 


450  ENGLISH  PROSE 


The  notion  therefore  of  a  Trinity,  more  or  less  removed  from 
the  purity  of  the  Christian  faith,  is  found  to  have  been  a  leading 
principle  in  all  the  ancient  schools  of  philosophy,  and  in  the 
religions  of  almost  all  nations  ;  and  traces  of  an  early  popular 
belief  of  it  appear  even  in  the  abominable  rites  of  idolatrous 
worship.  If  reason  was  insufficient  for  this  great  discovery,  what 
could  be  the  means  of  infonnation,  but  what  the  Platonists 
themselves  assign,  OeoTrapaSoro's  OeoXoyia.  "  A  theology 
delivered  from  the  gods,"  t'.e.  a  Revelation.  This  is  the  account 
which  Platonists,  who  were  no  Christians,  have  given  of  the 
origin  of  their  master's  doctrine.  But  from  what  Revelation  could 
they  derive  their  information,  who  lived  before  the  Christian,  and 
had  no  light  from  the  Mosaic  ?  For  whatever  some  of  the  early 
fathers  may  have  imagined,  there  is  no  evidence  that  Plato  or 
Pythagoras  were  at  all  acquainted  with  the  Mosaic  writings  ;  not 
to  insist,  that  the  worship  of  a  Trinity  is  traced  to  an  earlier  age 
than  that  of  Plato  or  of  Pythagoras,  or  even  of  Moses.  Their 
information  could  be  only  drawn  from  traditions  founded  upon 
earlier  revelations  ;  from  scattered  fragments  of  the  ancient  patri- 
archal creed  ;  that  creed,  which  was  universal  before  the  defection 
of  the  first  idolaters,  which  the  corruptions  of  idolatry,  gross 
and  enormous  as  they  were,  could  never  totally  obliterate.  Thus 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  is  rather  confirmed  than  discredited  by 
the  suffrage  of  the  heathen  sages  ;  since  the  resemblance  of  the 
Christian  faith  and  the  pagan  philosophy  in  this  article,  when 
fairly  intei-preted,  appears  to  be  nothing  less  than  the  consent  of 
the  latest  and  the  earliest  revelations. 

(From  A  Charge  io  the  Clergy  of  /he  ArcJuieacoiiry  of  St. 
Albans.) 


THE  WATER  AND  THE   BLOOD 

But  how  do  this  water  and  this  blood  bear  witness  that  the  cmci- 
fied  Jesus  was  the  Christ  ?  Water  and  blood  were  the  indispensable 
instruments  of  cleansing  and  expiation  in  all  the  cleansings  and 
expiations  of  the  law.  "Almost  all  things,"  saith  St.  Paul,  "are 
by  the  law  purged  with  blood  ;  and  without  shedding  of  blood  there 
is  no  remission."  But  the  purgation  was  not  by  Ijlood  only,  but 
by  Ijlood  and  water  ;  for  the  same  apostle  says — "When  Moses  had 


SAMUEL  HORSLEY  451 

spoken  every  precept  to  all  the  people  according  to  the  law,  he  took 
the  blood  of  calves  and  of  goats,  with  water,  and  sprinkled  both  the 
book  and  all  the  people."  All  the  cleansings  and  exjiiations  of  the 
law,  by  water  and  animal  blood,  were  typical  of  the  real  cleansing  of 
the  conscience  by  the  water  of  baptism,  and  of  the  expiation  of  real 
guilt  by  the  blood  of  Christ  shed  upon  the  cross,  and  virtually 
taken  and  received  by  the  faithful  in  the  Lord's  Supper.  The 
flowing  therefore  of  this  water  and  this  blood,  immediately  upon 
our  Lord's  death,  from  the  wound  opened  in  His  side  was  a 
notification  to  the  surrounding  multitudes,  though  at  the  time 
understood  by  i&\\^  that  the  real  expiation  was  now  complete,  and 
the  cleansing  fount  set  open.  O  wonderful  exhibition  of  the 
goodness  and  severity  of  God  !  It  is  the  ninth  hour,  and  Jesus, 
strong  to  the  last  in  suffering,  commending  His  spirit  to  the  Father, 
exclaims  with  a  loud  voice  that  "  it  is  finished,"  bows  His  anointed 
head,  and  renders  up  the  ghost !  Nature  is  convulsed  !  Earth 
trembles  !  The  sanctuary,  that  type  of  the  heaven  of  heavens,  is 
suddenly  and  forcibly  thrown  open  !  The  tombs  are  burst  !  Jesus 
hangs  upon  the  cross  a  corpse  !  And  lo  !  the  fountain  which, 
according  to  the  prophet,  was  this  day  to  be  set  open  for  sin  and  for 
pollution,  is  seen  suddenly  springing  from  His  wound  ! — Who, 
contemplating  only  in  imagination  the  mysterious  awful  scene, 
exclaims  not  with  the  centurion — "Truly  this  was  the  Son  of 
God  !'' — truly  He  was  the  Christ. 

Thus  I  have  endeavoured  to  explain  how  the  water  and  the 
l)lood,  together  with  the  Spirit,  are  witnesses  upon  earth  to  establish 
the  faith  which  overcometh  the  world.  Much  remains  untouched, 
but  the  time  forbids  me  to  proceed.  One  thing-  only  I  must  add, 
— that  the  faith  which  overcometh  the  world  consists  not  in  the 
involuntary  assent  of  the  mind  to  historical  evidence  ;  nor  in  its 
assent,  perhaps  still  more  involuntary,  to  the  conclusions  of 
argument  from  facts  proved  and  admitted.  All  this  knowledge 
and  all  this  understanding  the  devils  possess,  yet  have  not  faith  ; 
and  believing  without  faith,  they  tremble.  Faith  is  not  merely  a 
speculative  but  a  practical  acknowledgment  of  Jesus  as  the 
Christ,  an  effort  and  motion  of  the  mind  toward  God  ;  when 
the  sinner  accepts  witli  thankfulness  the  proffered  terms  of 
pardon,  and  in  humble  confidence  applying  individually  to  self 
tlie  benefit  of  the  general  atonement,  in  the  elevated  language  of 
a  venerable  father  of  the  Church,  drinks  of  the  stream  which 
flows  from  the  Redeemer's  wounded  side.      The   effect   is,  that   in 


452  ENGLISH  PROSE 


a  little  he  is  filled  with  that  perfect  love  of  God  which  casteth  out 
fear,  he  cleaves  to  God  with  the  entire  affection  of  the  soul. 
And  from  this  active  lively  faith  overcoming  the  world,  subduing 
carnal  self,  all  these  good  works  do  necessarily  spring,  which  God 
hath  before  ordained,  that  we  should  walk  in  them. 

(From  Ser/}w>!s.) 


THE   HEATHEN   POET  AND  THE   BIBLE 

A  HEATHEN  poet,  whose  subject  leads  him  to  speak  of  a  certain 
voyage,  which,  if  it  was  ever  really  performed,  was  the  first 
attempt  of  any  European  nation  to  cross  the  main  seas  in  a  large 
ship  with  masts  and  sails,  describes  in  elegant  and  animated 
strains  the  consequences  which  the  success  of  so  extraordinary  an 
undertaking  might  be  expected  to  produce  upon  the  state  of  man- 
kind, the  free  intercourse  that  was  likely  to  be  opened  between 
distant  nations,  and  the  great  discoveries  to  be  expected  from 
voyages  in  future  times,  when  the  arts  of  shipbuilding  and  naviga- 
tion, to  which  this  expedition,  if  a  real  one,  gave  rise,  should  be 
carried  to  perfection.  This  is  his  general  argument,  and  verses 
to  this  effect  make  the  conclusion  of  his  song  : — 

Distant  years 
Shall  bring  the  fated  season,  when  Ocean, 
Nature's  prime  barrier,  shall  no  more  obstruct 
The  daring  search  of  enterprising  man. 
The  earth,  so  wide,  shall  all  be  open, — 
The  mariner  explore  new  worlds  ; 
Nor  Shetland  be  the  utmost  shore. 

"Now  give  me,"  says  the  infidel,  "a  prophecy  from  your 
Bible,  which  may  be  as  clearly  predictive  of  any  event  which  you 
may  choose  to  allege  for  the  accomplishment,  as  these  verses  have 
by  mere  accident  proved  to  be  of  the  discovery  of  America  by 
Christopher  Columbus, — give  me  such  a  prophecy  from  your 
Bible  as  I  have  produced  to  you  from  a  heathen  poet,  who  yet  was 
no  prophet,  nor  claimed  the  character,  and  I  will  turn  believer." 
We  cheerfully  accept  this  arrogant  defiance  :  we  are  thankful  to 
the  adversary  that  hath  invited  us  to  meet  him  on  such  advan- 
tageous ground,  by  comparing  what  may  justly  be  deemed  the 
most  indefinite  of  the  Scripture  prophecies,  with  the  best  specimen 


SAMUEL  HORSLEY  453 

of  the  power  of  accident  for  the  completion  of  prophecy  which  his 
extensive  reading  could  produce. 

These  verses  of  this  Latin  poet  are  indeed  a  striking  example 
of  a  prediction  that  might  safely  take  its  chance  in  the  world,  and 
happen  what  might,  could  not  fail  at  some  time  or  other  to  meet 
with  its  accomplishment.  Indeed,  it  predicts  nothing  but  what 
was  evidently  within  the  ken  of  human  foresight,  that  men,  being 
once  furnished  with  the  means  of  discovery,  would  make  discov- 
eries ;  that,  having  ships,  they  would  make  voyages  ;  that,  when 
these  improvements  in  the  art  of  shipbuilding  should  have 
furnished  larger  and  better  ships,  men  would  make  longer  and 
more  frequent  voyages  ;  and  that,  by  longer  and  more  frequent 
voyages,  they  would  gain  more  knowledge  of  the  surface  of  the 
globe  which  they  inhabit.  What  peasant  of  Thessaly  but 
might  have  uttered  such  prophecies  as  these,  who  saw  the 
Argo  bring  her  heroes  home,  and  observed  to  what  degree  tlie 
avarice  and  curiosity  of  his  countrymen  were  inflamed  by  the 
wealth  which  the  adxenturers  had  amassed,  and  the  stories  which 
they  spread  ?  What  restriction  do  we  find  of  the  generality  of 
these  prognostications,  which  may  seem  to  put  the  exact  com- 
pletion out  of  the  reach  of  accidental  causes  ?  None.  Neither 
the  parts  of  the  world  were  specified  from  which  expeditions  of 
discovery  should  be  fitted  out,  nor  the  quarters  in  which  they 
should  most  succeed  :  or  if  any  particular  intimation  upon  the 
latter  article  be  couched  in  the  mention  of  Shetland  as  an  island 
that  should  cease  to  be  extreme,  it  is  erroneous  ;  as  it  points  pre- 
cisely to  that  quarter  of  the  globe  where  discovery  hath  been  ever 
at  a  stand, — where  the  ocean,  to  this  hour  opposes  his  eternal 
barrier  of  impervious  unnavigable  ice. 

(From  the  Same.) 


EDWARD   GIBBON 


[Edward  Gibbon  was  born  at  Putney  on  27th  April  1737.  His  father 
was  a  man  of  some  fortune,  and  belonged  to  a  fair  family,  though  his  own 
wealth  was  derived  from  speculation.  Gibbon  was  a  very  weakly  boy,  the 
sole  survivor  of  several  children.  He  was  very  uncomfortable  at  West- 
minster, but  picked  up  a  good  deal  of  miscellaneous  information  ;  and  when 
he  was  rather  prematurely  sent  to  O.xford  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  his  disgust  with 
his  college  (Magdalen)  seems  to  have  been  as  much  due  to  priggishness, 
shyness,  and  irregular  mixture  of  learning  and  ignorance  in  the  scholar,  as  to 
incapacity  or  unworthiness  in  the  teachers.  He  turned  Roman  Catholic  at 
sixteen,  left  Oxford,  found,  for  the  time  at  least,  nothing  palateable  in  the 
Bolingbrokian  philosophy  of  Mallet,  and  was  sent  to  Lausanne  to  board  with 
a  pastor,  M.  Pavillard.  Here  he  stayed  five  years.  His  unromantic  romance 
with  Suzanne  Curchod,  afterwards  Madame  Necker,  when  he  "  sighed  as  a 
lover  but  obeyed  as  a  son,"  is  one  of  the  most  universally  known  things  in  his 
life.  The  special  purpose  of  his  visit  was  so  far  achieved  that  he  took  the 
sacrament  in  Protestant  form,  and,  as  he  characteristically  remarks,  "suspended 
his  religious  enquiries,"  which  it  may  be  observed  had  begun,  even  before  his 
Roman  stage,  under  the  ominous  auspices  of  Conyers  Middleton.  He  came 
home  in  1758,  joined  the  Hampshire  militia,  got  on  well  enough  with  father 
and  stepmother  (his  own  aunt  Catherine  Porten,  who  had  brought  him  up,  was 
the  only  person  for  whom  he  had  any  family,  perhaps  the  only  woman  for 
whom  he  had  any  real,  affection),  returned  to  the  Continent,  and  on  15th 
October  1764  conceived,  as  he  has  himself  told,  the  idea  of  his  great  history. 
Thirty  years  more  of  life  remained  to  him,  in  which,  besides  some  minor  work, 
he  carried  out  the  scheme  of  the  Decline  a?id  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  This 
took  something  more  than  twenty  of  them  ;  and  he  has  celebrated  the  com- 
pletion in  a  passage  as  stately  and  as  famous  as  that  which  records  the 
conception.  Meanwhile  he  lived  partly  in  England,  partly  and  by  preference 
at  Lausanne,  sat  in  Parliament  for  some  time,  and  was  a  Lord  of  Trade  and 
Plantations.  The  first  volume  of  the  Decline  was  published  in  1776,  the  last 
in  1788.  Gibbon  himself  died  on  16th  January  1794.  His  friend  Holroyd, 
Lord  Sheffield,  subsequently  collected  and  published  his  Miscellatteous  Works, 
of  which  by  far  the  most  important  is  his  masterly  and  characteristic  auto- 
biography. ] 

Although  upon  the  whole  Gibbon  is  one  of  the  rare  examples 
of  a  writer  whose  reputation,  great  and  deserved  at  once,  has 
deservedly  increased  as  time  went  on,  it  cannot  be  said  that  he 


456  ENGLISH  PROSE 


has  at  any  time  escaped  unjust  or  at  least  irrelevant  detraction. 
At  the  time  of  its  appearance,  though  it  could  not  fail  to  make  its 
mark,  the  Deditic  and  Fall  of  the  Rovuin  Empire  was  exposed 
to  misconception  from  two  causes.     In  respect  of  one  of  these  the 
author  was  justly  to  be  blamed  ;  while  in  respect  of  the  other  he 
was   guiltless.      There   can  be  no   doubt  that   Gibbon's   attitude 
towards   Christianity  and  religion  generally,   was  even  from  the 
lowest  point  of  view  a  mistake.      It  prejudiced  one  large  section 
of  his    readers   against    him ;     it    introduced    a    disturbing    and 
deluding   influence    into   his    own   manner  of  view ;    and  what  is 
more  it  was  already  something  of  an  anachronism.      Gibbon  took 
it  up  when  it  was  already  losing  its  hold  upon  the  brighter  and 
more  original  spirits  in  all  countries,  when  it  was  a  fashion  and 
not  even  a  very  new  fashion.      Again,  the  generation  for  whose 
benefit  the  book  was  written  was  in  the  habit  of  considering  the 
ages  with  which  all  the   best   and  most  characteristic  part  of  it 
deals  as  "  dark,"  sordid,  uninteresting,  and  unworthy  the  attention 
of  any  but   pedants  and  monks.      Gibbon's  genius  indeed  com- 
pelled  them   to   read  ;    but   they  cannot  but  have  felt  a  certain 
grudge  against  him  for  the  compulsion.      Nor  did  things  improve 
when  a  new  generation  and  a  new  century  came  into  being.     The 
offence  to  orthodoxy  remained,  and  if  the  distaste  for  the  subject 
slowly  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  Romantic  feelings,  it  was  replaced 
by  an  even  stronger  distaste  for  the  style,  and  a  sort  of  double- 
edged  political  odium.      Tories  disliked    Gibbon   because  of  his 
subversive  religious  opinions  ;  Whigs  made  as  little  of  him  as  they 
could  because  he  was  a  Tory  in  politics.     Accordingly  a  collec- 
tion of   curious    uncritical   omissions    or    aggressions    might    be 
made  from  the  greater  critics  of  the  first  quarter  of  this  century 
about  him.      The  remarks  of  Coleridge,  the  most  scholarly  and 
philosophical,  and  of  Leigh  Hunt,  the  most  impulsive  and  popular, 
of  the   Romantic  critics  on  his  style  are  almost  equally  unfavour- 
able ;    Sydney   Smith,  in  a  context  which  makes  oversight  almost 
impossible,    excludes    him    from    the   list  of   "our    greatest    his- 
torians";   Jeffrey,    so   far  as   I    remember,    leaves    him   severely 
alone.      The   massive   splendour   of  his   manner   had    ceased   to 
please   a   time   which   was    seeking   after  more  fantastic  literary 
ornament  ;  and  the  incomparable  richness  and  art  of  his  matter 
did  not  yet  fully  appeal  to  a  time  which  was  only  beginning  the 
history  of  the  document. 

Yet  even   against  these  drawbacks  Gibbon's  wonderful  merits 


EDWARD  GIBBON  457 

made  their  way  ;  and  of  late  his  fame  on  the  side  of  matter  has 
risen  higher  than  ever,  and  on  that  of  form  has  recovered  much 
and  will  I  think  recover  more  appreciation.  The  estimate  now 
held  by  all  the  best  historians  of  his  historical  merits  is  some- 
thing unique  in  literary  history.  For  the  greater  part  of  the 
century  since  his  death,  and  for  the  whole  of  its  latter  half,  one 
unceasing  process  of  unearthing  original  authorities,  and  of 
correcting  (not  always  too  critically  or  generously)  the  treatment 
of  their  subjects  by  previous  writers  has  been  going  on.  Historian 
after  historian  whose  name  was  great  with  our  forefathers,  has 
been  justly  or  unjustly  relegated  from  the  shelf  of  history  to  that 
of  bclks  Icttrcs  if  his  literary  merits  happen  to  have  been  con- 
siderable, and  to  the  garret  or  the  cellar  if  they  were  not.  Yet 
every  critic  who,  himself  competent  to  speak  even  on  jsarts  of  the 
subject,  has  examined  these  parts  with  fairness,  has  confessed 
with  astonishment  the  adecjuacy  of  Gibbon's  treatment ;  while 
those  who  are  competent  to  judge  the  work  as  a  whole  have 
spoken  with  even  greater  astonishment  of  his  coordination  of  the 
several  parts  into  that  whole.  In  the  union  of  accuracy  and 
grasp  indeed  Gibbon  has  absolutely  no  rival  in  literature  ancient 
and  modern.  It  constantly  happens  that  a  most  learned,  in- 
dustrious, and  accurate  scholar  will  show  himself  hopelessly 
incompetent  for  the  task  of  arranging  his  knowledge  of  something 
much  less  than  the  history  of  the  whole  of  the  western  and  part 
of  the  eastern  world  for  fifteen  hundred  years.  It  happens — not 
much  less  often — that  a  man  of  real  historical  range  and  grasp 
is  unecjual  to  the  toil,  or  unprovided  with  the  faculty  of  ascer- 
taining and  stating  details  with  accuracy.  But  Gibbon  is  equally 
great  at  both  these  things.  It  may  be  that  he  was  not  a  little 
indebted  to  a  gift  which  may  be  called  the  gift  of  sagaciously 
letting  alone  ;  but  he  certainly  did  not  abuse  this  gift,  and  one  of 
his  most  remarkable  characteristics  is  his  faculty  of  making  slight 
references,  which  on  fuller  knowledge  of  the  subject  are  found  to 
be  perfectly  exact  as  far  as  they  go.  Every  careful  critic  of  his 
own  and  other  men's  work  knows  that  there  is  no  more  dangerous 
point  than  this  one  of  slight  reference  or  allusion  to  subjects 
imperfectly  known,  nor  any  in  which  sciolism  or  imposture  is 
more  certain  to  be  found  out.  Yet  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say 
that  Gibbon  has  never  been  thus  found  out.  There  were  some 
things — not  many — which  he  did  not  and  could  not  know  ;  but 
almost  everything  that  there  was  for  him  to  know  he  knew. 


458  ENGLISH  PROSE 


The  merits  of  his  manner  must  of  necessity  be  far  more 
matters  of  taste,  of  opinion,  and  of  variations  in  both.  The 
simile  of  the  "  Hampshire  mihtiaman,"  which  has  sometimes  been 
supposed  to  be  justified  l^y  his  own  very  innocent  remark  that  his 
training  in  drill  and  tactics  had  been  of  use  to  him  on  the  military 
side  of  history  is  smart  enough  of  course.  All  that  can  be  said 
is  that  it  is  a  very  high  compliment  to  the  Hampshire  militia. 
To  those  who  insist  upon  extreme  ornamentation,  or  extreme 
simplicity  of  style,  Gibbon's,  of  course,  must  be  distasteful.  But 
to  those  who  judge  a  thing  by  its  possession  of  its  own  ex- 
cellences, and  not  by  its  lack  of  the  excellences  of  others,  it  must 
always  be  the  subject  of  an  immense  admiration.  In  the  first  place 
it  is  perfectly  clear,  and  for  all  its  stateliness  so  little  fatiguing  to 
the  reader  that  true  Gibbonians  read  it,  by  snatches  or  in  long 
draughts,  as  others  read  a  newspaper  or  a  novel  for  mere  pastime. 
Although  full  of  irony  and  epigram  it  is  never  uneasily  charged 
with  either  ;  and  the  narrative  is  never  broken,  the  composition 
never  interrupted  for  the  sake  of  a  flourish  or  a  "point."  It  may 
be  thought  by  some  to  abuse  antithesis  of  sense  and  Ijalance  of 
cadence  ;  but  I  should  say  myself  that  there  is  fully  sufficient 
variety  in  the  sentences  and  in  the  paragraph  arrangement  to 
prevent  this.  Here,  no  doubt,  the  ultima  ratio  of  individual 
taste  comes  in.  What  is  not  disputable  is  that  in  the  style  of  the 
balanced  sentence,  in  which  antithesis  was  the  chief  figure  used, 
and  in  which  the  writer  depends  upon  an  ironic  or  declamatory 
flavouring,  as  the  case  might  be,  to  save  his  manner  from  stiff- 
ness, Gibbon  has  achieved  the  "farthest  possible."  That  this 
was  so,  may  be  seen,  better  perhaps  than  in  any  other  way  by 
comparing  the  practice  of  Macaulay,  who  may  be  called  a  popular 
nineteenth-century  Gibbon.  That  most  ingenious  and  widely 
read  historian  in  reality  did  little  more  than  shorten  the 
Gibbonian  antithesis,  substitute  a  sharp  cjuick  movement  for  the 
former  stately  roll,  exchange  irony  for  a  certain  kind  of  wit,  and 
the  declamation  of  oratory  for  the  declamation  of  debate. 

These  remarks  of  necessity  apply  most  to  the  Decline  and 
Fall,  but  the  manner  of  Gibbon  is  one  and  indivisible,  and  the 
Autobiography,  the  Miscellaneous  Works,  and  even  the  letters, 
exhibit  no  very  different  characteristics.  It  would  indeed  have 
been  surprising  if  they  had.  For  Gibbon  was  one  of  those 
fortunate  and  rare  men  of  letters,  who  early  conceiving  a  great 
and  definite  scheme  of  literary  attemjn  have  had  the  leisure  and 


EDWARD  GIBBON  459 


the  means  to  perfect  their  hterary  undertakings.  He  spent  about 
twenty  years  on  the  completion  of  the  work  which  he  was  born 
to  do  ;  and  everything  that  as  by-work  and  addition  he  feU 
himself  inclined  to  grapple  with,  had  in  its  preparation  and  execu- 
tion an  equally  unhurried  maturity.  There  may  be,  and  no  doubt 
there  were,  other  instances  of  faculty  which  had  equal  opportunities 
of  developing  itself,  and  failed.  In  his  case  the  faculty  was 
there,  the  scheme  was  there,  and  the  opportunities  were  there, 
with  the  result  of  a  perfect  accomplishment.  It  rests  with  those 
who  hold  that  the  faculty  and  the  scheme  being  present  but  the 
opportunities  absent,  the  same  or  any  approximately  equal  result 
is  attainable,  to  produce  an  instance  justifying  their  theory. 


George  Saintsbury. 


CONSTANTIUS  AT  ROME 

The  protection  of  the  Rhaetian  frontier  and  the  persecution  of 
the  Cathohc  church  detained  Constantius  in  Italy  above  eighteen 
months  after  the  departure  of  Juhan.  Before  the  Emperor  re- 
turned into  the  East,  he  indulged  his  pride  and  curiosity  in  a  visit 
to  the  ancient  capital.  He  proceeded  from  Milan  to  Rome  along 
the  yEmilian  and  Flaminian  ways  ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  approached 
within  forty  miles  of  the  city,  the  march  of  a  prince  who  had  never 
vanquished  a  foreign  enemy  assumed  the  appearance  of  a  triumphal 
procession.  His  splendid  train  was  composed  of  all  the  ministers 
of  luxury  ;  but  in  a  time  of  profound  peace,  he  was  encompassed 
by  the  glittering  arms  of  the  numerous  squadrons  of  his  guards 
and  cuirassiers.  Their  streaming  banners  of  silk,  embossed  with 
gold,  and  shaped  in  the  form  of  dragons,  waved  round  the  person 
of  the  emperor.  Constantius  sat  alone  on  a  lofty  car  resplendent 
with  gold  and  precious  gems  ;  and,  except  when  he  bowed  his 
head  to  pass  under  the  gates  of  the  cities,  he  affected  a  stately 
demeanour  of  inflexible  and,  as  it  might  seem,  of  insensible 
gravity.  The  severe  discipline  of  the  Persian  youth  had  been 
introduced  by  the  eunuchs  into  the  imperial  palace  ;  and  such 
were  the  habits  of  patience  which  they  had  inculcated,  that  during 
a  slow  and  sultry  march,  he  was  never  seen  to  move  his  hand 
towards  his  face,  or  to  turn  his  eyes  either  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left.  He  was  received  by  the  magistrates  and  senate  of  Rome  ; 
and  the  emperor  surveyed  with  attention  the  civil  honours  of  the 
republic  and  the  consular  images  of  the  noble  families.  The 
streets  were  lined  with  an  innumerable  multitude.  Their  repeated 
acclamations  expressed  their  joy  at  beholding,  after  an  absence  of 
thirty-two  years,  the  sacred  person  of  their  sovereign  ;  and 
Constantius  himself  expressed,  with  some  pleasantry,  his  affected 
surprise  that  the  human  race  should  thus  suddenly  be  collected 
on  the  same  spot.      The  son  of  Constantine  was  lodged  in  the 


EDWARD  GIBBON  461 


ancient  palace  of  Augustus  ;  he  presided  in  the  Senate,  harangued 
the  people  from  the  tribunal  which  Cicero  had  so  often  ascended, 
assisted  with  unusual  courtesy  at  the  games  of  the  circus,  and 
accepted  the  crowns  of  gold,  as  well  as  the  panegyrics  which  had 
been  prepared  for  the  ceremony  by  the  deputies  of  the  principal 
cities.  His  short  visit  of  thirty  days  was  employed  in  viewing 
the  monuments  of  art  and  power,  which  were  scattered  over  the 
seven  hills  and  the  interjacent  vallies.  He  admired  the  awful 
majesty  of  the  capital,  the  vast  extent  of  the  baths  of  Caracalla 
and  Diocletian,  the  severe  simplicity  of  the  Pantheon,  the  massy 
greatness  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Titus,  the  elegant  architecture  of 
the  theatre  of  Pompey  and  the  temple  of  peace,  and,  above  all, 
the  stately  structure  of  the  forum  and  column  of  Trajan  ;  acknow- 
ledging that  the  voice  of  fame,  so  prone  to  invent  and  to  magnify, 
had  made  an  inadequate  report  of  the  metropolis  of  the  world. 
The  traveller,  who  has  contemplated  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome, 
may  conceive  some  imperfect  idea  of  the  sentiments  which  they 
must  have  inspired  when  they  reared  their  heads  in  the  splendour 

of  unsullied  beauty.  ,„  ,      7-1    7-  i  i-  ii\ 

^  (From  the  Decline  and  tail.) 


THE   DIET  OF  THE  TARTARS 

The  corn,  or  even  the  rice,  which  constitutes  the  ordinary  and 
wholesome  food  of  a  civilized  people,  can  be  obtained  only  by  the 
patient  toil  of  the  husbandman.  Some  of  the  happy  savages, 
who  dwell  between  the  tropics,  are  plentifully  nourished  by  the 
liberality  of  nature  ;  but  in  the  climates  of  the  north,  a  nation  of 
shepherds  is  reduced  to  their  flocks  and  herds.  The  skilful 
practitioners  of  the  medical  art  will  determine  (if  they  are  able  to 
detennine)  how  far  the  temper  of  the  human  mind  may  be  affected 
by  the  use  of  animal,  or  of  vegetable,  food  ;  and  whether  the 
common  association  of  carnivorous  and  cruel  desenes  to  be 
considered  in  any  other  light,  than  that  of  an  innocent,  perhaps  a 
salutary,  prejudice  of  humanity.  Yet  if  it  be  true  that  the  senti- 
ment of  compassion  is  imperceptibly  weakened  by  the  sight  and 
practice  of  domestic  cruelty,  we  may  observe  that  the  horrid 
objects  which  are  disguised  by  the  arts  of  European  refinement 
are  exhibited  in  their  naked  and  most  disgusting  simplicity  in  the 


462  ENGLISH  PROSE 


tent  of  a  Tartarian  shepherd.  The  ox,  or  the  sheep,  are  slaughtered 
by  the  same  hand  from  which  they  were  accustomed  to  receive 
their  daily  food  ;  and  the  bleeding  limbs  are  served,  with  very 
little  preparation,  on  the  table  of  their  unfeeling  murderer. 

In  the  military  profession,  and  especially  in  the  conduct  of  a 
numerous  army,  the  exclusive  use  of  animal  food  appears  to  be 
productive  of  the  most  solid  advantages.  Com  is  a  bulky  and 
perishal)le  commodity  ;  and  the  large  magazines,  which  are  indis- 
pensably necessary  for  the  subsistence  of  our  troops,  must  be 
slowly  transported  by  the  labour  of  men  or  horses.  But  the 
flocks  and  herds  which  accompany  the  march  of  the  Tartars, 
afford  a  sure  and  increasing  supply  of  flesh  and  milk  ;  in  the  far 
greater  part  of  the  uncultivated  waste,  the  vegetation  of  the  grass 
is  quick  and  luxuriant  ;  and  there  are  few  places  so  extremely 
barren,  that  the  hardy  cattle  of  the  north  cannot  find  some  toler- 
able pasture.  The  supply  is  multiplied  and  prolonged  by  the 
undistinguishing  appetite,  and  patient  abstinence  of  the  Tartars. 
They  indifferently  feed  on  the  flesh  of  those  animals  that  have 
been  killed  for  the  table,  or  have  died  of  disease.  Horse-flesh, 
which  in  every  age  and  country  has  been  proscribed  by  the 
civilised  nations  of  Europe  and  Asia,  they  devour  with  peculiar 
greediness  ;  and  this  singular  taste  facilitates  the  success  of  their 
military  operations.  The  active  cavalry  of  Scythia  is  always 
followed,  in  their  most  distant  and  rapid  incursions,  by  an  adequate 
number  of  spare  horses,  who  may  be  occasionally  used,  either  to 
redouble  the  speed,  or  to  satisfy  the  hunger,  of  the  barbarians. 
Many  are  the  resources  of  courage  and  poverty.  When  the 
forage  round  a  camp  of  Tartars  is  almost  consumed,  they  slaughter 
the  greatest  part  of  their  cattle,  and  preserve  the  flesh,  either 
smoked  or  dried  in  the  sun.  On  the  sudden  emergency  of  a 
hasty  march,  they  provide  themselves  with  a  sufficient  cjuantity  of 
little  balls  of  cheese,  or  rather  of  hard  curd,  which  they  occasionally 
dissolve  in  water  ;  and  this  unsubstantial  diet  will  support,  for 
many  days,  the  life,  and  even  the  spirits,  of  the  patient  warrior. 
But  this  extraordinary  abstinence,  which  the  stoic  would  approve 
and  the  hemiit  might  envy,  is  commonly  succeeded  by  the  most 
voracious  indulgence  of  appetite.  The  wines  of  a  happier  climate 
are  the  most  grateful  ]iresent,  or  the  most  valual^le  commodity, 
that  can  be  offered  to  the  Tartars  ;  and  the  only  example  of  their 
industry  seems  to  consist  in  the  art  of  extracting  from  mare's 
milk  a  fermented   liquour,  which  possesses  a  very  strong  power  of 


EDWARD  GIBBON  463 


intoxication.  Like  the  animals  of  prey,  the  savages,  both  of  the 
old  and  new  world,  experience  the  alternate  vicissitudes  of 
famine  and  plenty  ;  and  their  stomach  is  inured  to  sustain,  with- 
out much  inconvenience,  the  opposite  extremes  of  hunger  and  of 

intemperance.  ,„         ^,      c         \ 

'  (From  the  Same.) 


THE   BATTLE   OF   CHALONS 

The  discipline  and  tactics  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  form  an 
interesting  part  of  their  national  manners.  The  attentive  study 
of  the  military  operations  of  Xenophon,  or  Caesar,  or  Frederic, 
when  they  are  described  by  the  same  genius  which  conceived  and 
executed  them,  may  tend  to  improve  (if  such  improvement  can  be 
wished)  the  art  of  destroying  the  human  species.  But  the  battle 
of  Chalons  can  only  excite  our  curiosity  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
object  ;  since  it  was  decided  by  the  blind  impetuosity  of  barbarians, 
and  has  been  related  by  partial  writers,  whose  civil  or  ecclesias- 
tical profession  secluded  them  from  the  knowledge  of  military 
affairs.  Cassiodorus,  however,  had  familiarly  conversed  with 
many  Gothic  warriors,  who  served  in  that  memorable  engagement  ; 
a  conflict  (as  they  informed  him)  fierce,  various,  obstinate,  and 
liloody  ;  such  as  could  not  be  paralleled,  either  in  the  present,  or  in 
l)ast  ages.  The  number  of  the  slain  amounted  to  one  hundred 
and  sixty-two  thousand,  or,  according  to  another  account,  three 
hundred  thousand  persons  ;  and  these  incredible  exaggerations 
suppose  a  real  and  effective  loss,  sufficient  to  justify  the  historian's 
remark,  that  whole  generations  may  be  swept  away  by  the  mad- 
ness of  kings,  in  the  space  of  a  single  hour.  After  the  mutual 
and  repeated  discharge  of  missile  weapons,  in  which  the  archers 
of  Scythia  might  signalise  their  superior  dexterity,  the  cavalry 
and  infantry  of  the  two  armies  were  furiously  mingled  in  closer 
combat.  The  Huns,  who  fought  under  the  eye  of  their  king, 
pierced  through  the  feeble  and  doubtful  centre  of  the  allies,  separ- 
ated their  wings  from  each  other,  and  wheeling  with  a  rapid 
effort,  to  the  left,  directed  their  whole  force  against  the  Visigoths. 
As  Theodoric  rode  along  the  ranks,  to  animate  his  troops,  he 
received  a  mortal  stroke  from  the  javelin  of  Andages,  a  noljle 
Ostrogoth,  and  immediately  fell  from  his  horse.      The  wounded 


464  ENGLISH  PROSE 


king  was  oppressed  in  the  general  disorder,  and  trampled  under 
the  feet  of  his  own  cavalry  ;  and  this  important  death  served  to 
explain  the  ambiguous  prophecy  of  the  haruspices.  Attila  already 
exulted  in  the  confidence  of  victory,  when  the  valiant  Torismond 
descended  from  the  hills,  and  verified  the  remainder  of  the  pre- 
diction. The  Visigoths,  who  had  been  thrown  into  confusion  by 
the  flight,  or  defection,  of  the  Alani,  gradually  restored  their  order 
of  battle  ;  and  the  Huns  were  undoubtedly  vanquished,  since 
Attila  was  compelled  to  retreat.  He  had  exposed  his  person 
with  the  rashness  of  a  private  soldier;  but  the  intrepid  troops  of 
the  centre  had  pushed  forward  beyond  the  rest  of  the  line  ;  their 
attack  was  faintly  supported  ;  their  flanks  were  unguarded  ;  and 
the  conquerors  of  Scythia  and  Germany  were  saved  by  the  approach 
of  the  night  from  a  total  defeat.  They  retired  within  the  circle 
of  waggons  that  fortified  their  camp  ;  and  the  dismounted  squad- 
rons prepared  themselves  for  a  defence,  to  which  neither  their 
arms,  nor  their  temper  were  adapted.  The  event  was  doubtful  ; 
but  Attila  had  secured  a  last  and  honourable  resource.  The 
saddles  and  rich  furniture  of  the  cavalry  were  collected,  by  his 
order,  into  a  funeral  pile  ;  and  the  magnanimous  barbarian  had 
resolved,  if  his  intrenchments  should  be  forced,  to  rush  headlong 
into  the  flames,  and  to  deprive  his  enemies  of  the  glory  which 
they  might  have  acquired,  by  the  death  or  captivity  of  Attila. 

But  his  enemies  had  passed  the  night  in  equal  disorder  and 
anxiety.  The  inconsiderate  courage  of  Torismond  was  tempted 
to  urge  the  pursuit,  till  he  unexpectedly  found  himself,  with  a  few 
followers,  in  the  midst  of  the  Scythian  waggons.  In  the  confusion 
of  a  nocturnal  combat,  he  was  thrown  from  his  horse  ;  and  the 
Gothic  prince  must  have  perished  like  his  father,  if  his  youthful 
strength,  and  the  intrepid  zeal  of  his  companions,  had  not  rescued 
him  from  this  dangerous  situation.  In  the  same  manner,  but  on 
the  left  of  the  line,  .^tius  himself,  separated  from  his  allies, 
ignorant  of  their  victory,  and  anxious  for  their  fate,  encountered 
and  escaped  the  hostile  troops  that  were  scattered  over  the  plains 
of  Chalons  ;  and  at  length  reached  the  camp  of  the  Goths,  which 
he  could  only  fortify  with  a  slight  rampart  of  shields,  till  the 
dawn  of  day.  The  imperial  general  was  soon  satisfied  of  the 
defeat  of  Attila,  who  still  remained  inactive  within  his  intrench- 
ments ;  and  when  he  contemplated  the  bloody  scene,  he  observed, 
with  secret  satisfaction,  that  the  loss  had  principally  fallen  on  the 
barbarians.      The   body   of  Theodoric,    pierced   with    honourable 


EDWARD  GIBBON  465 


wounds,  was  discovered  under  a  heap  of  the  slain  :  his  subjects 
bewailed  the  death  of  their  king  and  father  ;  but  their  tears  were 
mingled  with  songs  and  acclamations,  and  his  funeral  rites  were 
performed  in  the  face  of  a  vancjuished  enemy.  The  Goths, 
clashing  their  arms,  elevated  on  a  buckler  his  eldest  son  Toris- 
mond,  to  whom  they  justly  ascribed  the  glory  of  their  success  : 
and  the  new  king  accepted  the  ol^ligation  of  revenge,  as  a  sacred 
portion  of  his  paternal  inheritance.  Yet  the  Goths  themselves 
were  astonished  by  the  fierce  and  undaunted  aspect  of  their 
formidable  antagonist  ;  and  their  historian  has  compared  Attila  to 
a  lion  encompassed  in  his  den,  and  threatening  his  hunters  with 
redoubled  fury.  The  kings  and  nations,  who  might  have  deserted 
his  standard  in  the  hour  of  distress,  were  made  sensible,  that  the 
displeasure  of  their  monarch  was  the  most  imminent  and 
inevitable  danger.  All  his  instruments  of  martial  music  inces- 
santly sounded  a  long  and  animating  strain  of  defiance  ;  and  the 
foremost  troops,  who  advanced  to  the  assault,  were  checked,  or 
destroyed,  by  showers  of  arrows  from  every  side  of  the  intrench- 
ments.  It  was  determined,  in  a  general  council  of  war,  to  besiege 
the  King  of  the  Huns  in  his  camp,  to  intercept  his  provisions,  and 
to  reduce  him  to  the  alternative  of  a  disgraceful  treaty,  or  an 
unequal  combat.  But  the  impatience  of  the  barbarians  soon  dis- 
dained these  cautious  and  dilatory  measures  ;  and  the  mature 
policy  of  yEtius  was  apprehensive,  that,  after  the  extirpation  of  the 
Huns,  the  republic  would  be  oppressed  by  the  pride  and  power  of 
the  Gothic  nation.  The  patrician  exerted  the  superior  ascendant 
of  authority  and  reason,  to  calm  the  passions,  which  the  son  of 
Theodoric  considered  as  a  duty  ;  represented,  with  seeming 
affection,  and  real  truth,  the  dangers  of  absence  and  delay  ;  and 
persuaded  Torismond  to  disappoint,  by  his  speedy  return,  the 
ambitious  designs  of  his  brothers,  who  might  occupy  the  throne 
and  treasures  of  Thoulouse.  After  the  departure  of  the  Goths, 
and  the  separation  of  the  allied  army,  Attila  was  surprised  at  the 
vast  silence  that  reigned  over  the  plains  of  Chalons  :  the  suspicion 
of  some  hostile  sti'atagem  detained  him  several  days  within  the 
circle  of  his  waggons  ;  and  his  retreat  beyond  the  Rhine  confessed 
the  last  victory  which  was  achieved   in  the   name  of  the  Western 

Empire.  , 

(From  the  bamc.) 


VOL.    IV 


466  ENGLISH  PROSE 


JUSTINIAN'S   CODE 

If  Cnesar  had  achieved  the  reformation  of  the  Roman  law,  his 
creative  genius,  enhghtened  by  reflection  and  study,  would  have 
given  to  the  world  a  pure  and  original  system  of  jurisprudence. 
Whatever  flattery  might  suggest,  the  emperor  of  the  East  was 
afraid  to  establish  his  private  judgment  as  the  standard  of  equity  : 
in  the  possession  of  legislative  power,  he  borrowed  the  aid  of 
time  and  opinion  ;  and  his  laborious  compilations  are  guarded  by 
the  sages  and  legislators  of  past  times.  Instead  of  a  statue  cast 
in  a  simple  mould  by  the  hand  of  an  artist,  the  works  of  Justinian 
represent  a  tessellated  pavement,  of  anticjue  and  costly,  but  too 
often  of  incoherent,  fragments.  In  the  first  year  of  his  reign,  he 
directed  the  faithful  Trebonian,  and  nine  learned  associates,  to 
revise  the  ordinances  of  his  predecessors,  as  tliey  were  contained, 
since  the  time  of  Hadrian,  in  the  Gregorian,  Hermogenian,  and 
Theodosian  codes ;  to  purge  the  errors  and  contradictions,  to 
retrench  whatever  was  obsolete  or  superfluous,  and  to  select  the 
wise  and  salutary  laws  best  adapted  to  the  practice  of  the  tribunals 
and  the  use  of  his  subjects.  The  work  was  accomplished  in 
fourteen  months  ;  and  the  twelve  books  or  tables,  which  the  new 
decemvirs  produced,  might  be  designed  to  imitate  the  labours  of 
their  Roman  predecessors.  The  new  code  of  Justinian  was 
honoured  with  his  name,  and  confirmed  by  his  royal  signature  : 
authentic  transcripts  were  multiplied  by  the  pens  of  notaries  and 
scribes  ;  they  were  transmitted  to  the  magistrates  of  the  European, 
the  Asiatic,  and  afterward,  the  African  provinces  :  and  the  law  of 
the  empire  was  proclaimed  on  solemn  festivals  on  the  doors  of 
churches.  A  more  arduous  operation  was  still  behind  :  to  e.xtract 
the  spirit  of  jurisprudence  from  the  decisions  and  conjectures,  the 
cjuestions  and  disputes,  of  the  Roman  civilians.  Seventeen 
lawyers,  with  Tribonian  at  their  head,  were  appointed  by  the 
Emperor  to  exercise  an  absolute  jurisdiction  over  the  works  of 
their  predecessors.  If  they  had  obeyed  his  commands  in  ten 
years,  Justinian  would  have  been  satisfied  with  their  diligence  ; 
and  the  rapid  composition  of  the  Digest  of  Pandects,  in  three 
years,  will  deserve  praise  or  censure,  according  to  the  merit  of  the 
composition.  From  the  library  of  Tribonian,  they  chose  forty, 
the     most     eminent     civilians    of    former    times  ;    two    thousand 


EDWARD  GIBBON  467 


treatises  were  comprised  in  an  abridgement  of  fifty  books  ;  and  it 
has  been  carefully  recorded,  that  three  millions  of  lines  or 
sentences  were  reduced,  in  this  abstract,  to  the  moderate  number 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand.  The  edition  of  this  great 
work  was  delayed  a  month  after  that  of  the  Institutes  ;  and  it 
seemed  reasonable  that  the  elements  should  precede  the  digest  of 
the  Roman  law.  As  soon  as  the  Emperor  had  approved  their 
labours,  he  ratified,  by  his  legislative  power,  the  speculations  of 
these  private  citizens  :  their  commentaries  on  the  twelve  tables, 
the  perpetual  edict,  the  laws  of  the  people,  and  the  decrees  of  the 
senate,  succeeded  to  the  authority  of  the  text ;  and  the  text  was 
abandoned,  as  a  useless,  though  venerable,  relic  of  antiquity. 
The  Code,  the  Pandects,  and  the  Institutes,  were  declared  to  be 
the  legitimate  system  of  civil  jurisprudence  ;  they  alone  were 
admitted  in  the  tribunals,  and  they  alone  were  taught  in  the 
academies  of  Rome,  Constantinople,  and  Berytus.  Justinian 
addressed  to  the  senate  and  provinces  his  "  eternal  oracles  "  ;  and 
his  pride,  under  the  mask  of  piety,  ascribed  the  consummation  of 
this  great  design  to  the  support  and  inspiration  of  the  Deity. 

Since  the  Emperor  declined  the  fame  and  envy  of  original 
composition,  we  can  only  require  at  his  hands  method,  choice,  and 
fidelity  ;  the  humble,  though  indispensable  virtues  of  a  compiler. 
Among  the  various  combinations  of  ideas,  it  is  difficult  to  assign 
any  reasonable  preference  ;  but  as  the  order  of  Justinian  is  different 
in  his  three  works,  it  is  possible  that  all  may  be  wrong  ;  and  it  is 
certain  that  two  cannot  be  right.  In  the  selection  of  ancient 
laws,  he  seems  to  have  viewed  his  predecessors  without  jealousy, 
and  with  equal  regard  :  the  series  could  not  ascend  above  the 
reign  of  Hadrian,  and  the  narrow  distinction  of  Paganism  and 
Christianity,  introduced  by  the  superstition  of  Theodorus,  had 
been  abolished  by  the  consent  of  mankind.  But  the  jurisprudence 
of  the  Pandects  is  circumscribed  within  a  period  of  a  hundred 
years,  from  the  perpetual  edict  to  the  death  of  Severus  Alexander  : 
the  civilians  who  lived  under  the  first  Cssars  are  seldom  permitted 
to  speak,  and  only  three  names  can  be  attributed  to  the  age  of 
the  republic.  The  favourite  of  Justinian  (it  has  been  fiercely 
urged)  was  fearful  of  encountering  the  light  of  freedom  and  the 
gravity  of  Roman  sages.  Tribonian  condemned  to  oblivion  the 
genuine  and  native  wisdom  of  Cato,  the  Scajvolas,  and  Sulpicius  ; 
while  he  invoked  spirits  more  congenial  to  his  own,  the  Syrians, 
Greeks,  and  Africans  who  flocked  to  the  imperial  court  to  study 


468  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Latin  as  a  foreign  tongue,  and  jurisprudence  as  a  lucrative  pro- 
fession. But  the  ministers  of  Justinian  were  instructed  to  labour, 
not  for  the  curiosity  of  antiquarians,  but  for  the  immediate  benefit 
of  his  subjects.  It  was  their  duty  to  select  the  useful  and 
practicable  parts  of  the  Roman  law  ;  and  the  writings  of  the  old 
republicans,  however  curious  or  excellent,  were  no  longer  suited 
to  the  new  system  of  manners,  religion,  and  government.  Perhaps, 
if  the  preceptors  and  friends  of  Cicero  were  still  alive,  our  candour 
would  acknowledge  that,  except  in  purity  of  language,  their 
intrinsic  merit  was  excelled  by  the  school  of  Papinian  and 
Ulpian.  The  science  of  the  laws  is  the  slow  growth  of  time  and 
experience,  and  the  advantage  both  of  method  and  materials  is 
naturally  assumed  by  the  most  recent  authors.  The  civilians  of 
the  reign  of  the  Antonines  had  studied  the  works  of  their 
predecessors  :  their  philosophic  spirit  had  mitigated  the  rigour  of 
antiquity,  simplified  the  forms  of  proceeding,  and  emerged  from 
the  jealousy  and  prejudice  of  the  rival  sects.  The  choice  of  the 
authorities  that  compose  the  Pandects,  depended  on  the  judgment 
of  Tribonian  ;  but  the  power  of  his  sovereign  could  not  absolve 
him  from  the  sacred  obligations  of  truth  and  fidelity.  As  the 
legislator  of  the  Empire,  Justinian  might  repeal  the  acts  of  the 
Antonines,  or  condemn  as  seditious  the  free  principles  which 
were  maintained  by  the  last  of  the  Roman  lawyers.  But  the 
existence  of  past  facts  is  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  despotism  ; 
and  the  Emperor  was  guilty  of  fraud  and  forgery,  when  he 
corrupted  the  integrity  of  their  text,  inscribed  with  their  venerable 
names  the  words  and  ideas  of  his  servile  reign,  and  suppressed  by 
the  hand  of  power  the  pure  and  authentic  copies  of  their  senti- 
ments. The  changes  and  interpolations  of  Tribonian  and  his 
colleagues  are  excused  by  the  ]jretence  of  uniformity  ;  but  their 
cares  have  been  insufficient,  and  the  antinomies,  or  contradictions 
of  the  Code  and  Pandects,  still  exercise  the  patience  and  subtlety 
of  modern  civilians.  ^Yxox^a  the  Same.) 


THE   MOSLEM   CAPTURE  OY  ALEPPO  AND 
ANTIOCIl 

To  achieve  what  yet   remained  of  the  Syrian   war,  the  caliph  had 
formed  two  separate  armies  ;   a  chosen  detachment,  under  Amrou 


EDWARD  GIBBON  469 

and  Yezid,  was  left  in  the  camp  in  Palestine  ;  while  the  larger 
division,  under  the  standard  of  Abu  Obeidah  and  Caled,  marched 
away  to  the  north  against  Antioch  and  Aleppo.  The  latter  of 
these,  the  Ber^a  of  the  Greeks,  was  not  yet  illustrious  as  the 
capital  of  a  province  or  a  kingdom ;  and  the  inhabitants,  by 
anticipating  their  suljmission,  and  pleading  their  poverty,  obtained 
a  moderate  composition  for  their  lives  and  religion.  But  the 
castle  of  Aleppo,  distinct  from  the  city,  stood  erect  on  a  lofty 
artificial  mound  :  the  sides  were  sharpened  to  a  precipice,  and 
faced  with  freestone  ;  and  the  breadth  of  the  ditch  might  be  filled 
with  water  from  the  neighbouring  springs.  After  the  loss  of  three 
thousand  men,  the  garrison  was  still  equal  to  the  defence  ;  and 
Youkinna,  their  valiant  and  hereditary  chief,  had  murdered  his 
Ijrother,  a  holy  monk,  for  daring  to  pronounce  the  name  of  peace. 
In  a  siege  of  four  or  five  months,  the  hardest  of  the  Syrian  War, 
great  numbers  of  the  Saracens  were  killed  and  wounded  :  their 
removal  to  the  distance  of  a  mile  could  not  seduce  the  vigilance 
of  Youkinna :  nor  could  the  Christians  be  terrified  by  the 
execution  of  three  hundred  captives,  whom  they  beheaded  before 
the  castle  wall.  The  silence,  and  at  length  the  complaints,  of 
Abu  Obeidah  informed  the  Caliph,  that  their  hope  and  patience 
were  consumed  at  the  foot  of  this  impregnable  fortress.  "  I  am 
variously  affected "  (replied  Omar)  "  by  the  difference  of  your 
success  ;  but  I  charge  you  by  no  means  to  raise  the  siege  of  the 
castle.  Your  retreat  would  diminish  the  reputation  of  our  arms 
and  encourage  the  infidels  to  fall  upon  you  on  all  sides.  Remain 
before  Aleppo,  till  God  shall  detennine  the  event,  and  forage  with 
your  horse  round  the  adjacent  country."  The  exhortation  of  the 
commander  of  the  faithful  was  fortified  by  a  supply  of  volunteei-s 
from  all  the  tribes  of  Arabia,  who  arrived  in  the  camp  on  horses 
or  camels.  Amongst  these  was  Dames,  of  a  servile  birth,  but  of 
gigantic  size,  and  intrepid  resolution.  The  forty-seventh  day  of 
his  service  he  j^roposed,  with  only  thirty  men,  to  make  an 
attempt  on  the  castle.  The  experience  and  testimony  of  Caled 
recommended  his  offer  ;  and  Abu  Obeidah  admonished  his  men 
not  to  despise  the  baser  origin  of  Dames,  since  he  himself,  could 
he  relinquish  the  public  care,  would  cheerfully  serve  under  the 
banner  of  the  slave.  His  design  was  covered  by  the  appearance 
of  a  retreat ;  and  the  camp  of  the  Saracens  was  pitched  about  a 
league  from  Aleppo.  The  thirty  adventurers  lay  in  ambush  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  ;  and  Dames  at  length   succeeded  in   his  inquiries, 


470  ENGLISH  PROSE 


though  he  was  provoked  by  the  ignorance  of  his  Greek  captives. 
"  God  curse  those  dogs "  (said  the  ilhterate  Arab),  "  what  a 
strange  barbarous  language  they  speak."  At  the  darkest  hour  of 
the  night  he  scaled  the  most  accessible  height,  which  he  had 
diligently  surveyed,  a  place  where  the  stones  were  less  entire,  or 
the  slope  less  perpendicular,  or  the  guard  less  vigilant.  Seven 
of  the  stoutest  Saracens  mounted  on  each  other's  shoulders,  and 
the  weight  of  the  column  was  sustained  on  the  broad  and  sinewy 
back  of  the  gigantic  slave.  The  foremost  in  this  painful  ascent 
could  grasp  and  climb  the  lowest  part  of  the  battlements  ;  they 
silently  stabbed  and  cast  down  the  sentinels ;  and  the  thirty 
brethren,  repeating  a  pious  ejaculation,  "  O  Apostle  of  God,  help 
and  deliver  us  ! "  were  successively  drawn  up  by  the  long  folds  of 
their  turbans.  With  bold  and  cautious  footsteps.  Dames  explored 
the  palace  of  the  governor,  who  celebrated,  in  riotous  merriment, 
the  festival  of  his  deliverance.  From  thence  returning  to  his 
companions,  he  assaulted  on  the  inside  the  entrance  of  the  castle. 
They  overpowered  the  guard,  unbolted  the  gate,  let  down  the 
drawbridge,  and  defended  the  narrow  pass,  till  the  arrival  of 
Caled,  with  the  dawn  of  day,  relieved  their  danger  and  assured 
their  conquest.  Youkinna,  a  formidable  foe,  became  an  active  and 
useful  proselyte  ;  and  the  general  of  the  Saracens  expressed  his 
regard  for  the  most  humble  merit,  by  detaining  the  army  at 
Aleppo  till  Dames  was  cured  of  his  honourable  wounds.  The 
capital  of  Syria  was  still  covered  by  the  castle  of  Aazaz  and  the 
iron  bridge  of  the  Orontes.  After  the  loss  of  these  important 
posts,  and  the  defeat  of  the  last  of  the  Roman  armies,  the  luxury 
of  Antioch  trembled  and  obeyed.  Her  safety  was  ransomed  with 
three  hundred  thousand  pieces  of  gold  ;  but  the  throne  of  the 
successors  of  Alexander,  the  seat  of  the  Roman  government  in  the 
East,  which  had  been  decorated  by  Cssar  with  the  titles  of  free,  and 
holy,  and  inviolate,  was  degraded  under  the  yoke  of  the  caliphs 
to  the  secondary  rank  of  a  provincial  town. 

(From  the  .Same.) 


BYZANTINE   LITERATURE 

iNT  our  modern  education,  the  painful  though  necessary  attainment 
of  two  languages,   which  are  no  longer  living,  may  consume  the 


EDWARD  GIBBON  47 1 


time  and  damp  the  ardour  of  the  youthful  student.      The  poets 
and  orators  were  long  imprisoned  in  the  barbarous  dialects  of  our 
western  ancestors,  devoid  of  harmony  or  grace  ;  and  their  genius, 
without  precept  or  example,  was  abandoned  to  the  rude  and  native 
powers  of  their  judgment  and  fancy.      But  the    Greeks  of  Con- 
stantinople,   after   purging   away   the   impurities   of   their    vulgar 
speech,  acquired  the  free  use  of  their  ancient  language,  the  most 
happy  composition  of  human  art,  and  a  familiar  knowledge  of  the 
sulilime    masters    who    had    pleased    or    instructed    the    first    of 
nations.       But    these    advantages    only    tend    to    aggravate    the 
reproach  and  shame  of  a  degenerate  people.      They  held  in  their 
lifeless  hands  the  riches  of  their  fathers,  without  inheriting  the 
spirit  which  had  created    and  improved  that  sacred  patrimony : 
they  read,   they  compiled,  but  their  languid  souls  seemed  alike 
incapable   of    thought    and    action.       In    the    revolution    of   ten 
centuries,  not  a  single  discovery  was  made  to  exalt  the  dignity  or 
promote  the  happiness  of  mankind.      Not  a  single  idea  has  been 
added  to  the  speculative  systems  of  anticjuity,  and  a  succession  of 
patient  disciples  became  in  their  turn  the  dogmatic  teachers  of  the 
next  servile   generation.      Not   a   single  composition    of  history, 
philosophy,  or  literature  has    been   saved  from    oblivion   by  the 
intrinsic  beauties  of  style  or  sentiment,  of  original  fancy,  or  even  of 
successful  imitation.      In  prose  the  least  offensive  of  the  Byzantine 
writers  are  absolved  from  censure  by  their  naked  and  unpresuming 
simplicity  ;  but  the  orators,   most   elocjuent   in  their  own   conceit, 
are  the  farthest  removed   from  the  models  whom  they  affect  to 
emulate.      In  every  page  our  taste  and  reason  are  wounded  by 
the   choice  of  gigantic   and  obsolete  words,    a  stiff  and  intricate 
phraseology,   the  discord  of  images,   the  childish  play  of  false  or 
unseasonable  ornament,  and  the  painful  attempt  to  elevate  them- 
selves, to  astonish  the  reader,  and  to  involve  a  trivial  meaning  in 
the  smoke  of  obscurity  and  exaggeration.      Their  prose  is  soaring 
to  the  vicious  affectation  of  poetry  :   their  poetry  is   sinking  below 
the  flatness  and  insipidity  of  prose.      The  tragic,  epic  and  lyric 
muses  were  silent  and  inglorious  :  the   bards   of  Constantinople 
seldom  rose  above  a  riddle  or  epigram,  a  panegyric  or  tale  ;   they 
forgot  even  the  rules  of  prosody  ;  and  with  the  melody  of  Homer 
yet  sounding  in  their  ears,  they  confound  all  measure  of  feet  and 
syllables   in   the  impotent  strains  which  have  received  the  name  of 
political  or  city  verses.      The  minds  of  the  Greeks  were  bound  in 
fetters  of  a  base  and  imperious  superstition,  which  extends  her 


472 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


dominion  round  the  circle  of  profane  science.  Their  understand- 
ings were  bewildered  in  metaphysical  controversy  :  in  the  belief  of 
visions  and  miracles,  they  had  lost  all  principles  of  moral  evidence, 
and  their  taste  was  vitiated  by  the  homilies  of  the  monks,  an 
absurd  medley  of  declamation  and  Scripture.  Even  these  con- 
temptible studies  were  no  longer  dignified  by  the  abuse  of  superior 
talents  ;  the  leaders  of  the  Greek  Church  were  humbly  content  to 
admire  and  copy  the  oracles  of  antiquity,  nor  did  the  schools  or 
pulpit    produce    any    rivals     of    the    fame     of    Athanasius     and 

Chrysostom.  ,„  ,,      c-  \ 

^  (From  the  Same.) 


MAGDALEN   COLLEGE,   OXFORD 

The  College  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen  was  founded  in  the  fifteenth 
century  by  Waynflete,  Bishop  of  Winchester  ;  and  now  consists 
of  a  president,  forty  fellows,  and  a  number  of  inferior  students. 
It  is  esteemed  one  of  the  largest  and  most  wealthy  of  our 
academical  corporations,  which  may  be  compared  to  the 
Benedictine  abbeys  of  Catholic  countries,  and  I  have  loosely 
heard  that  the  estates  belonging  to  Magdalen  College,  which  are 
leased  by  those  indulgent  landlords  at  small  quit-rents  and 
occasional  fines,  might  be  raised,  in  the  hands  of  private  avarice, 
to  an  annual  revenue  of  nearly  ^30,000.  Our  colleges  are 
supposed  to  be  schools  of  science  as  well  as  of  education  ;  nor  is 
it  unreasonable  to  expect  that  a  body  of  literary  men,  devoted  to  a 
life  of  celibacy,  exempt  from  the  care  of  their  own  subsistence,  and 
amply  provided  with  books,  should  devote  their  leisure  to  the 
prosecution  of  study,  and  that  some  effects  of  their  studies  should 
be  manifested  to  the  world.  The  shelves  of  their  library  groan 
under  the  weight  of  the  benedictine  folios,  of  the  editions  of  the 
fathers,  and  the  collections  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which  have  issued 
from  the  single  Abbey  of  St.  Germaine  de  Prez  at  Paris.  A  com- 
position of  genius  must  be  the  offspring  of  one  mind  ;  but  such 
works  of  industry  as  may  be  divided  among  many  heads,  and 
must  be  continued  during  many  years,  are  the  peculiar  province 
of  a  laborious  community.  If  I  inquire  into  the  manufactures  of 
the  monks  of  Magdalen,  if  I  extend  the  inquiry  to  the  other 
colleges  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  a  silent  blush,  or  a  scornful 
frown,  will  be  the  only  reply.      The  fellows  or  monks  of  my  time 


EDWARD  GIBBON  473 


were  decent  easy  men,  who  supinely  enjoyed  the  gifts  of  the 
founder ;  their  days  were  filled  by  a  series  of  uniform  employ- 
ments ;  the  chapel  and  the  hall,  the  coffee-house  and  the  common 
room,  till  they  retired,  weary  and  well  satisfied,  to  a  long  slumber. 
From  the  toil  of  reading,  or  thinking,  or  writing,  they  had 
absolved  their  conscience  ;  and  the  first  shoots  of  learning  and 
ingenuity  withered  on  the  ground,  without  yielding  any  fruits  to 
the  owners  or  the  public.  As  a  gentleman  commoner,  I  was 
admitted  to  the  society  of  the  fellows,  and  fondly  expected  that 
some  questions  of  literature  would  be  the  amusing  and  instructive 
topics  of  their  discourse.  Their  conversation  stagnated  in  a 
round  of  college  business,  Tory  politics,  personal  anecdotes,  and 
private  scandal  :  their  dull  and  deep  potations  excused  the  brisk 
intemperance  of  youth  ;  and  their  constitutional  toasts  were  not 
expressive  of  the  most  lively  loyalty  for  the  house  of  Hanover. 
A  general  election  was  now  approaching  ;  the  great  Oxfordshire 
contest  already  blazed  with  all  the  malevolence  of  party  zeal. 
Magdalen  College  was  devoutly  attached  to  the  old  interest  ;  and 
the  names  of  Wenman  and  Dashwood  were  more  frequently  pro- 
nounced than  those  of  Cicero  and  Chrysostom.  The  example  of 
the  senior  fellows  could  not  inspire  the  undergraduates  with  a 
liberal  spirit  or  studious  emulation  ;  and  I  cannot  describe,  as  I 
never  knew,  the  discipline  of  college.  Some  duties  may  possibly 
have  iDcen  imposed  on  the  poor  scholars  whose  ambition  aspired 
to  the  peaceful  honours  of  a  fellowship  (ascribi  quiciis  ordiiiibus 
.  .  .  Dcoruni)  ;  but  no  independent  members  were  admitted 
l:)elow  the  rank  of  a  gentleman  commoner,  and  our  velvet  cap  was 
the  cap  of  liberty.  A  tradition  prevailed  that  some  of  our  prede- 
cessors had  spoken  Latin  declamations  in  the  hall  ;  but  of  this 
ancient  custom  no  vestige  remained :  the  obvious  methods  of 
public  exercises  and  examinations  were  totally  unknown  ;  and  I 
liave  never  heard  that  either  the  president  or  the  society  interfered 
in  the  private  economy  of  the  tutors  and  their  pupils. 

(From  the  AutohiognipJiy.^ 


FINALE 

When  I  contemplate  the  common  lot  of  mortality,  I  must 
acknowledge  that  I  have  drawn  a  high  prize  in  the  lottery  of  life. 
The  far  greater  part  of  the  globe  is  overspread  with  barbarism  or 


474  ENGLISH  PROSE 


slavery.  In  the  ci\iliscd  world,  the  most  numerous  class  is  con- 
demned to  ignorance  and  poverty  ;  and  the  double  fortune  of  my 
birth  in  a  free  and  enlightened  country,  in  an  honourable  and 
wealthy  family,  is  the  lucky  chance  of  an  unit  against  millions. 
The  general  probability  is  that  a  new-born  infant  will  not  live  to 
complete  his  fiftieth  year.  I  have  now  passed  that  age,  and  may 
fairly  estimate  the  present  value  of  my  existence  in  the  threefold 
division  of  mind,  body,  and  estate. 

( I )  The  first  and  indispensable  requisite  of  happiness  is  a  clear 
conscience,  unsullied  by  the  reproach  or  remembrance  of  an  un- 
worthy action. 

Hic  mums  ahoia/s  csto  : 

Nil  coHscire  sibi,  nulla  pallescerc  culpa. 

I  am  endowed  with  a  cheerful  temper,  a  moderate  sensibility, 
and  a  natural  disposition  to  repose  rather  than  to  activity  :  some 
mischievous  appetites  and  habits  have  perhaps  been  corrected  by 
philosophy  or  time.  The  love  of  study,  a  passion  which  derives 
fresh  vigour  from  enjoyment,  supplies  each  day,  each  hour,  with  a 
perpetual  source  of  independent  and  rational  pleasure  ;  and  I  am 
not  sensible  of  any  decay  of  the  mental  faculties.  The  original 
soil  has  been  highly  improved  by  cultivation  ;  but  it  may  be 
c[uestioned  whether  some  flowers  of  fancy,  some  grateful  errors, 
have  not  been  eradicated  with  the  roots  of  prejudice.  (2)  Since 
I  have  escaped  from  the  long  perils  of  my  childhood,  the  serious 
advice  of  a  physician  has  seldom  been  requisite.  "  The  madness 
of  superfluous  health  "  I  have  never  known  ;  but  my  tender  con- 
stitution has  been  fortified  by  time,  and  the  inestimable  gift  of  the 
sound  and  peaceful  slumbers  of  infancy  may  be  imputed  both  to  the 
mind  and  body.  (3)  I  have  already  described  the  merits  of  my 
society  and  situation  ;  but  these  enjoyments  would  be  tasteless  or 
bitter  if  their  possession  were  not  assured  by  an  annual  and 
adecjuate  supply.  According  to  the  scale  of  Switzerland  I  am  a  rich 
man,  and  I  am  indeed  rich,  since  my  income  is  superior  to  my  ex- 
pense, and  my  expense  is  equal  to  my  wishes.  My  friend,  Lord 
Sheffield,  has  kindly  relieved  me  from  the  cares  to  which  my  taste 
and  temper  are  most  adverse  ;  shall  I  add,  that  since  the  failure 
of  my  first  wishes  I  have  never  entertained  any  serious  thoughts 
of  a  matrimonial  connection  ? 

I  am  disgusted  with  the  affectation  of  men  of  letters  who  com- 
plain that  they  have  renounced  a  substance  for  a  shadow  ;  and 
that  their  fame  (which  sometimes  is  no  insupportable  weight,  affords 


EDWARD  GIBBON  475 


a  poor  compensation  for  envy,  censure,  and  persecution.  My 
own  experience,  at  least,  has  taught  me  a  very  different  lesson. 
Twenty  happy  years  have  been  animated  by  the  labour  of  my 
history ;  and  its  success  has  given  me  a  name,  a  rank,  a  character 
in  the  world,  to  which  I  should  not  otherwise  have  been  entitled. 
The  freedom  of  my  writings  has  indeed  provoked  an  implacable 
tribe  ;  but  as  I  was  safe  from  the  stings,  I  was  soon  accustomed 
to  the  buzzing  of  the  hornets.  My  nerves  are  not  tremblingly 
alive,  and  my  literary  temper  is  so  happily  framed,  that  I  am  less 
sensible  of  pain  than  of  pleasure.  The  rational  pride  of  an 
author  may  be  offended  rather  than  flattered  by  vague  indis- 
criminate praise  ;  but  he  cannot,  he  should  not,  be  indifferent  to 
the  fair  testimonies  of  private  and  public  esteem.  Even  his 
moral  sympathy  may  be  gratified  by  the  idea  that  now,  in  the 
present  hour,  he  is  imparting  some  degree  of  amusement  or 
knowledge  to  his  friends  in  a  distant  land  :  that  one  day  his  mind 
will  be  familiar  to  the  grandchildren  of  those  who  are  yet  unborn. 
I  cannot  boast  of  the  friendship  or  favour  of  princes ;  the 
patronage  of  English  literature  has  long  since  been  de\-olved  on 
our  booksellers,  and  the  measure  of  their  liberality  is  the  least 
ambiguous  test  of  our  common  success.  Perhaps  the  golden 
mediocrity  of  my  fortune  has  contributed  to  fortify  my  application. 
The  present  is  a  fleeting  moment,  the  past  is  no  more  ;  and 
our  prospect  of  futurity  is  dark  and  doubtful.  This  day  may 
possibly  be  my  last  ;  but  the  laws  of  probability,  so  true  in 
general,  so  fallacious  in  particular,  still  allow  me  about  fifteen 
years.  I  shall  soon  enter  into  the  period  which,  as  the  most 
agreeable  of  his  long  life,  was  selected  by  the  judgment  and  ex- 
perience of  the  sage  Fontenelle.  His  choice  is  approved  by  the 
elocjuent  historian  of  nature,  who  fixes  our  moral  happiness  to 
the  mature  season  in  which  our  passions  are  supposed  to  have 
calmed,  our  duties  fulfilled,  our  ambition  satisfied,  our  fame  and 
fortune  established  on  a  solid  basis.  In  private  conversation,  that 
great  and  amiable  man  added  the  weight  of  his  own  experience  ; 
and  this  autumnal  felicity  might  be  exemplified  in  the  lives  of 
Voltaire,  Hume,  and  many  other  men  of  letters.  I  am  far  more 
inclined  to  embrace  than  to  dispute  this  comfortable  doctrine.  I 
will  not  suppose  any  premature  decay  of  the  mind  or  body  ;  but  I 
must  reluctantly  observe  that  two  causes,  the  abbreviation  of 
time,  and  the  failure  of  hope,  will  always  tinge  with  a  Ijrowner 
shade  the  evening  of  life.  (Yxom  the  Same.) 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


[James  Bosvvell,  son  of  a  Scotch  advocate  who  was  raised  to  the  Bench 
under  the  name  of  Lord  Auchinleck,  was  born  in  1740,  and  educated  in 
Edinburgh.  Having  already  made  some  Hterary  essays,  and  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  hterary  notabihties  of  the  Scottish  capital,  he  came  to 
London  (for  which  he  had  conceived  a  great  attachment  in  an  even  earlier 
visit)  in  1762,  chiefly  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  Dr.  Johnson,  whom  he 
already  reverenced  by  rejiutation.  From  1765  he  resided  for  some  time 
abroad,  and  found  access  to  Rousseau,  and  through  him,  to  Paoli,  the 
assertor  of  Corsican  liberties,  with  whom  he  lived  for  some  time,  and  of  whom 
and  the  island  of  Corsica  he  wrote  an  account  in  1768.  He  pursued  his 
profession  as  advocate  intermittently  :  but  his  chief  occupation  was  the 
cultivation  of  Hterary  society,  especially  that  of  Dr.  Johnson,  with  whom  he 
made  a  tour  in  the  Hebrides,  of  which  he  published  an  account  in  1785.  He 
continued  to  \>e  the  intimate  and  observant  friend  of  Johnson  until  the  death 
of  the  latter  in  1784,  and  published  his  biography  in  1791.  Its  success  was 
immediate:  a  second  edition  was  published  in  1793:  and  a  third  was  in 
[Mcparation  when  Boswell  died  in  1795.] 

Whatever  may  be  our  opinion  of  Boswell,  either  as  to  character 
or  as  to  intellect,  the  praise  must  be  universally  conceded  to  him 
of  having  produced  the  very  best  book,  in  its  own  kind,  which 
the  world  has  seen.  This  is  no  small  achievement.  As  a  inan 
he  was  full  of  weaknesses  and  vanity  :  intellectually,  he  was  in 
many  respects  poorly  equipped  :  and  the  contrast  between  such 
a  man  and  the  work  he  has  produced,  has  not  unnaturally  given 
rise  to  paradoxes  to  account  for  the  phenomenon.  To  Macaulay, 
it  seemed  enough  to  say  that  he  was  great  because  of  his  very 
weakness  :  while  Carlyle  found  the  secret  of  his  success  in  the 
enthusiastic  devotion  of  his  hero-worship.  Each  view,  presented 
to  us  by  such  men,  commands  attention,  and  embodies  one  aspect 
of  the  truth  :  but  even  when  we  set  aside  all  paradox,  the  con- 
summate success  of  Boswell  may  be  explained  upon  more  solid 
literary  grounds.  He  had  an  ardent,  even  a  consuming  desire  to 
become  accjuainted  with  men   of  light  and   leading  :   and   he   not 


47«  ENGLISH  PROSE 


only  discerned  his  prey  with  marvellous  acumen,  and  pursued  it 
with  indomitable  perseverance,  but  he  was  evidently  possessed  of 
certain  gifts  which  secured  for  him  their  toleration,  if  not  their 
regard.  His  success  in  these  efforts  dated  almost  from  his  boy- 
hood ;  and  besides  that  circle  that  surro:mded  Johnson,  to  which 
Johnson's  protection  gave  him  access,  he  managed  to  form  an 
acquaintance  with  three  men  in  very  different  spheres,  who  can 
have  had  few  common  friends — Hume,  Voltaire,  and  Rousseau. 
That  the  obedient  henchman  of  Johnson  should  ha\'e  found  some- 
thing to  admire  in  each  of  these,  proves  that  Boswell  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  docile  adulator,  with  an  exaggerated  amount 
of  curiosity.  Eminence  of  any  kind  had  for  him  an  instinctive 
attraction,  which  was  something  very  different  from  toadyism  or 
servility.  He  was  indeed  a  curious  instance  of  a  man  whose 
insight  into  character,  whose  discrimination  of  motives,  whose 
sense  of  intellectual  distinctions  were  out  of  all  proportion  to  his 
ability  in  all  other  matters.  This  instinct  was  aided  by  all  the 
resources  of  boundless  g-aiety  and  good  humour,  which  ingratiated 
him  with  his  victims,  and  made  them  ready  to  endure  all  his 
follies  and  absurdities  with  infinite  toleration.  He  was  the 
very  opposite  of  a  narrow  man.  His  sympathies  were  keen  and 
quick  :  and  if  his  character  was  formed  on  somewhat  of  a  petty 
scale,  yet  it  contained  all  the  variety  of  moods  that  gave  full  play 
to  these  sympathies.  He  had  enthusiasm,  and  melancholy ; 
vague  aspirations  after  speculation  ;  stirrings  of  patriotic  feeling  ; 
a  spasmodic  religious  sense  ;  and  a  considerable  tincture  of 
romance.  All  these  qualities  were  no  doubt  coloured  by  a  vanity 
which  gave  them  something  of  the  burlesque  :  but  none  the  less 
it  was  by  them  that  there  ran  through  Boswell's  personality  a 
certain  chord  of  sympathy  that  made  it  resonant  to  every  note  of 
feeling.  His  observations  were  absolutely  different  from  the 
mechanical  exactness  of  literary  photography  :  they  were  guided 
by  an  instinctive  discrimination,  and  made  real  and  vivid  by  the 
skill  of  an  artist. 

It  is  true  that  Boswell's  success  owes  something  to  those 
features  of  his  character  which  move  our  contempt.  His  self- 
respect  was  completely  swallowed  up  in  vanity,  and  the  result  of 
this  is  that  he  writes  with  a  freedom  and  self-abandonment,  with 
a  carelessness  of  the  judgment  that  may  be  passed  upon  him  as 
a  man,  which  only  such  freedom  from  self-consciousness  as  it  is 
given  to  very  few  men  to  attain,  could  ever  equal.      Just  as  his 


JAMES  BOSWELL  479 


vanity  g^ives  to  his  work  the  same  effect  as  want  of  self-conscious- 
ness, so  the  perfection  of  his  ingenuous  pedantry  gives  to  it  the 
effect  of  humour.  No  man  who  was  without  humour  could  tell 
a  story  with  the  skill  of  Boswell  ;  but  it  is  his  unconscious 
humour  which  amuses  us  most.  A  sentence  such  as  this — 
"  Belief  is  favourable  to  the  human  mind,  were  it  for  nothing  else 
but  to  furnish  its  entertainment.  An  infidel,  I  should  think,  must 
frequently  suffer  from  e/inui" — is  uttered  by  Boswell  with  perfect 
solemnity.  But  how  near  it  comes  to  what  might  have  been  said 
by  a  master  of  humour  ! 

Boswell,  then,  possessed  in  perfection  some  essential  qualifica- 
tions for  the  biographer — discernment,  discrimination,  the  eye  of 
an  artist,  a  keen  sense  of  literary  proportion.  His  way  was  made 
easy  for  him  by  good  humour,  and  an  unbounded  love  of  society, 
and  his  vanity  made  him  impervious  to  any  rebuff,  however 
crushing.  His  keen  sympathy  enabled  him  to  penetrate  the 
motives  of  men,  and  he  had  enough  of  literary  skill  to  convey  the 
impression  of  a  character  or  of  an  incident  with  dramatic  reality. 
In  spite  of  all  his  weakness,  his  folly,  his  dissipation,  and  the 
essential  shallowness  of  his  character,  he  had  earnestness  of 
purpose  enough  to  force  him  to  untiring  perseverance  in  his  task. 
The  perfection  with  which  that  task  was  accomplished  was  partly 
the  result  of  practice.  Few  now  read  Boswell's  journal  of  his 
conversations  with  Paoh  ;  but  in  these  we  have,  less  fully 
developed,  all  the  discriminating  minuteness,  all  the  happy  selec- 
tion, all  the  deft  literary  portrait -painting,  which  reached  their 
climax  in  the  famous  biography.  Wonderful  as  it  is  that  a  man 
so  compact  of  folly  and  vanity,  so  childish  and  so  weak  as  Boswell, 
should  have  produced  a  book  which  has  enforced  the  admiration 
of  the  world,  yet  we  need  not  explain  that  book  as  a  literary 
miracle.  Its  success  is  achieved  by  the  usual  means — insight, 
sympathy,  skill,  and  perseverance  ;  and  its  author  had  served  an 
apprenticeship  to  his  art  before  he  began  his  greatest  work. 

The  chief  features  of  Boswell's  work  are  to  be  found  in  his 
methods  and  his  treatment,  not  in  any  distinctive  quality  of  his 
style.  Considered  merely  as  prose,  it  is  careful  and  correct. 
When  it  attempts  to  be  eloquent,  it  generally  becomes  inflated 
and  absurd,  without  any  loss  of  entertainment.  The  influence 
of  his  Mentor  is,  of  course,  visible  in  every  page  ;  but  whether 
of  set  purpose  or  not,  that  influence  is  not  so  marked  as  Boswell's 
contemporaries  probably  expected  it  to  be.      He  had  a  good  ear 


4So  ENGLISH  PROSE 


for  the  rhythm  of  prose,  and  his  Hterary  taste  doubtless  told  him 
that  obtrusive  imitation  of  Johnson's  style  would  be  out  of  place 
in  his  biography.  Boswell  cultivated,  like  many  of  his  con- 
temporaries, a  somewhat  foonal  style ;  l)ut  he  could  descend 
from  the  formality  when  the  narrative  required  it.  And,  while 
he  saw  clearly  how  absurd  were  the  common  notions  of  Johnson's 
style,  he  could  occasionally  hint  a  criticism  where  his  hero  lapsed 
into  ponderosity.  In  the  Account  of  Corsica  he  affected  a  peculiar 
and  somewhat  pedantic  orthography,  and  describes  himself  "  as 
one  of  those  who  are  curious  in  the  formation  of  language  in  its 
various  modes."  "  If  this  work"  he  proceeds,  in  a  characteristic 
vein,  "  should  at  any  future  period  be  reprinted,  I  hope  that  care 
will  be  taken  of  my  orthography."  But  his  literary  eccentricities 
went  no  further. 

H.  Craik. 


THE   PAINS  AND   PLEASURES  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

Writing  a  book  I  have  found  to  be  like  building  a  house.  A 
man  forms  a  plan  and  collects  materials.  He  thinks  he  has 
enough  to  raise  a  large  and  stately  edifice  ;  but  after  he  has 
arranged,  compacted,  and  polished,  his  work  turns  out  to  be  a 
very  small  performance.  The  authour,  however,  like  the  builder, 
knows  how  much  labour  his  work  cost  him,  and  therefore  estimates 
it  at  a  much  higher  rate  than  other  people  think  it  deserves. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  avoid  an  ostentatious  display  of  learning. 
By  the  idle  and  frivolous,  indeed,  any  appearance  of  learning  is 
called  pedantry.  But  as  I  do  not  write  for  such  readers,  I  pay 
no  regard  to  their  censures.  Those  by  whom  I  wish  to  be  judged 
will,  I  hope,  approve  of  my  adding  dignity  to  Corsica  by  showing 
its  consideration  among  the  ancients,  and  will  not  be  displeased 
to  find  my  page  sometimes  embellished  with  a  seasonable  quota- 
tion from  the  classicks.  The  translations  are  ascribed  to  their 
proper  authours.      What  are  not  so  ascribed  are  my  own. 

It  may  be  necessary  to  say  something  in  defence  of  my  ortho- 
graphy. Of  late  it  has  become  the  fashion  to  render  our  language 
more  neat  and  trim  by  leaving  out  k  after  c,  and  u  in  the  last 
syllable  of  words  which  used  to  end  in  our.  The  illustrious  Samuel 
Johnson,  who  has  alone  executed  in  England  what  was  the  task 
of  whole  academies  in  other  countries,  has  been  careful  in  his 
Dictiofjary  to  preserve  the  k  as  a  mark  of  Saxon  original.  He 
has  for  the  most  part,  too,  been  careful  to  preserve  the  u,  but  he 
has  also  omitted  it  in  several  words.  I  have  retained  the  k,  and 
have  taken  upon  me  to  follow  a  general  rule  with  regard  to  words 
ending  in  our.  Wherever  a  word  originally  Latin  has  been  trans- 
mitted to  us  through  the  medium  of  the  French,  I  have  written  it 
with  the  characteristical  u.  An  attention  to  this  may  appear 
trivial.  But  I  own  I  am  one  of  those  who  are  curious  in  the  for- 
mation of  language  in  its  various  modes,  and  therefore  wish  that 

VOL.   IV  2  I 


482  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  affinity  of  English  with  other  tongues  may  not  be  forgotten. 
If  this  work  should  at  any  future  period  be  reprinted,  I  hope  that 
care  will  be  taken  of  my  orthography. 

He  who  publishes  a  book,  alTecting  not  to  be  an  authour,  and 
professing  indifference  for  literary  fame,  may  possibly  impose  upon 
many  people  such  an  idea  of  his  consequence  as  he  wishes  may 
be  received.  For  my  part,  I  should  be  proud  to  be  known  as  an 
authour,  and  I  have  an  ardent  ambition  for  literary  fame  ;  for  of 
all  possessions  I  should  imagine  literaiy  fame  to  be  the  most 
valuable.  A  man  who  has  been  able  to  furnish  a  book  which  has 
been  approved  by  the  world,  has  established  himself  as  a  respect- 
able character  in  distant  society,  without  any  danger  of  having 
that  character  lessened  by  the  observation  of  his  weaknesses.  To 
preserve  an  uniform  dignity  among  those  who  see  us  every  day  is 
hardly  possible  ;  and  to  aim  at  it  must  put  us  under  the  fetters  of 
perpetual  restraint.  The  authour  of  an  approved  book  may  allow 
his  natural  disposition  an  easy  play,  and  yet  indulge  the  pride  of 
superior  genius  when  he  considers  that  l)y  those  who  know  him 
only  as  an  authour  he  never  ceases  to  be  respected.  Such  an 
authour,  when  in  his  hours  of  gloom  and  discontent,  may  have  the 
consolation  to  think  that  his  writings  are  at  that  very  time  giving 
pleasure  to  numbers  ;  and  such  an  authour  may  cherish  the  hope 
of  being  remembered  after  death,  which  has  been  a  great  object 
to  the  noblest  minds  in  all  ages. 

Whether  I  can  merit  any  portion  of  literary  fame,  the  public 
will  judge.  Whatever  my  ambition  may  be,  I  trust  that  my  con- 
fidence is  not  too  great,  nor  my  hopes  too  sanguine. 

(From  Preface  to  Accfl/ni/  of  Corsfia.) 


TO   SIR  JOSHUA   REYNOLDS 

Mv  DEAR  Sir  —  Every  liberal  motive  that  can  actuate  an 
author  in  the  dedication  of  his  labours,  concurs  in  directing  me 
to  you,  as  the  person  to  whom  the  following  Work  should  be 
inscribed. 

If  there  be  a  pleasure  in  celebrating  the  distinguished  merit  of 
a  contemporary,  mixed  with  a  certain  degree  of  vanity,  not  alto- 
gether inexcusable,  in  appearing  fully  sensible  of  it,  where  can  I 
find  one,  in  complimenting  whom  I  can  with  more  general  appro- 


JAMES  BOSWELL  483 


bation  gratify  those  feelings  ?  Your  excellence,  not  only  in  the 
Art  over  which  you  have  long  presided  with  unrivalled  fame,  but 
also  in  Philosophy  and  elegant  Literature,  is  well  known  to  the 
present,  and  will  continue  to  be  the  admiration  of  future  ages. 
Your  equal  and  placid  temper,  your  variety  of  conversation,  your 
true  politeness,  by  which  you  are  so  amiable  in  private  society, 
and  that  enlarged  hospitality  which  has  long  made  your  house  a 
common  centre  of  union  for  the  great,  the  accomplished,  the 
learned,  and  the  ingenious — all  these  c[ualities  I  can,  in  jjcrfect 
confidence  of  not  being  accused  of  flattery,  ascribe  to  you. 

If  a  man  may  indulge  an  honest  pride,  in  having  it  known  to 
the  world  that  he  has  been  thought  worthy  of  particular  attention 
by  a  person  of  the  first  eminence  in  the  age  in  which  he  lived, 
whose  company  has  been  universally  courted,  I  am  justified  in 
availingj^  myself  of  the  usual  privilege  of  a  Dedication,  when  I 
mention  that  there  has  been  a  long  and  uninterrupted  friendship 
between  us. 

If  gratitude  should  be  acknowledged  for  favours  received,  I 
have  this  opportunity,  my  dear  Sir,  most  sincerely  to  thank  you 
for  the  many  happy  hours  which  I  owe  to  your  kindness, — for  the 
cordiality  with  which  you  have  at  all  times  been  pleased  to  wel- 
come me — for  the  number  of  valuable  acquaintances  to  whom  you 
have  introduced  me,  for  the  7toctes  camccque  Dcum,  which  1  have 
enjoyed  under  your  roof. 

If  a  work  should  be  inscribed  to  one  who  is  master  of  the  sub- 
ject of  it,  and  whose  approbation,  therefore,  must  insure  it  credit 
and  success,  the  Life  ofDr.Johnso7i  is,  with  the  greatest  propriety, 
dedicated  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  was  the  intimate  and 
beloved  friend  of  that  great  man ;  the  friend  whom  he  declared  to 
be  "  The  most  invulnerable  man  he  knew  ;  whom,  if  he  should 
quarrel  with  him,  he  should  find  the  most  difficulty  how  to  abuse." 
You,  my  dear  Sir,  studied  him,  and  knew  him  well ;  you  venerated 
and  admired  him.  Yet,  luminous  as  he  was  upon  the  whole,  you 
perceived  all  the  shades  which  mingled  in  the  grand  composition  ; 
all  the  little  peculiarities  and  slight  blemishes  which  marked  the 
literary  Colossus.  Your  very  warm  commendation  of  the  speci- 
men which  I  gave  in  my  Journal  of  a  Tour  to  tJie  Hebrides^  of 
my  being  able  to  preserve  his  conversation  In  an  authentic  and 
lively  manner,  which  opinion  the  Public  has  confirmed,  was  the 
best  encouragement  for  me  to  persevere  in  my  purpose  of  produc- 
ing the  whole  of  my  stores. 


484  ENGLISH  PROSE 


In  one  respect  this  Work  will,  in  some  passages,  be  different 
from  the  former.  In  my  Tour  I  was  almost  unboundedly  open 
in  my  communications,  and  from  my  eagerness  to  display  the 
wonderful  fertility  and  readiness  of  Johnson's  wit,  freely  showed 
to  the  world  its  dexterity,  even  when  I  was  myself  the  object  of 
it.  I  trusted  that  I  should  be  liberally  understood,  as  knowing 
very  well  what  I  was  about,  and  by  no  means  as  simply  uncon- 
scious of  the  pointed  effects  of  the  satire.  I  own,  indeed,  that  I 
was  an^ogant  enough  to  suppose  that  the  tenor  of  the  rest  of  the 
book  would  sufficiently  guard  me  against  such  a  strange  imputa- 
tion. But  it  seems  I  judged  too  well  of  the  world  ;  for,  though  I 
could  scarcely  believe  it,  I  have  been  undoubtedly  informed,  that 
many  persons,  especially  in  distant  quarters,  not  penetrating 
enough  into  Johnson's  character,  so  as  to  understand  his  mode  of 
treating  his  friends,  have  arraigned  my  judgment,  instead  of  seeing 
that  I  was  sensible  of  all  that  they  could  observe. 

It  is  related  of  the  great  Dr.  Clarke,  that  when  in  one  of  his 
leisure  hours  he  was  unbending  himself  with  a  few  friends  in  the 
most  playful  and  frolicsome  manner,  .he  observed  Beau  Nash 
approaching,  upon  which  he  suddenly  stopped:  —  "My  boys," 
said  he,  "  let  us  be  grave  :  here  comes  a  fool."  The  world,  my 
friend,  I  have  found  to  be  a  great  fool,  as  to  that  particular  on 
which  it  has  become  necessary  to  speak  very  plainly.  I  have, 
therefore,  in  this  work  been  more  reserved  ;  and  though  I  tell 
nothing  but  the  truth,  I  have  still  kept  in  my  mind  that  the  whole 
truth  is  not  always  to  be  exposed.  This,  however,  I  have  managed 
so  as  to  occasion  no  diminution  of  the  pleasure  which  my  book 
should  afford  ;  though  malignity  may  sometimes  be  disappointed 
of  its  gratifications. — I  am,  my  dear  Sir,  your  much  obliged  friend, 
and  faithful  humble  servant,  James  Boswell. 

London,  zolh  April  1791. 

(Dedication  of  the  Life.') 


BO.SWELL'.S    INTRODUCTION    TO    JOHNSON 

This  is  to  me  a  memorable  year  ;  for  in  it  I  had  the  happiness 
to  obtain  the  acquaintance  of  that  extraordinary  man  whose 
memoirs  I  am  now  writing  ;  an  acquaintance  which  I  shall  ever 
esteem  as  one  of  the  most   fortunate   circumstances  in  my  life. 


JAMES  BOSWELL  485 


Though  then  but  two-and-twenty,  I  had  for  several  years  read  his 
works  with  deUght  and  instruction,  and  had  the  highest  reverence 
for  their  author,  which  had  grown  up  in  my  fancy  into  a  kind  of 
mysterious  veneration,  by  figuring  to  myself  a  state  of  solemn 
elevated  abstraction,  in  which  I  supposed  him  to  live  in  the 
immense  metropolis  of  London.  Mr.  Gentleman,  a  native  of 
Ireland,  who  passed  some  years  in  Scotland  as  a  player  and  as 
an  instructor  in  the  English  language,  a  man  whose  talents  and 
worth  were  depressed  by  misfortunes,  had  given  me  a  representa- 
tion of  the  figure  and  manner  of  Dictionary  Johnson,  as  he 
was  then  generally  called  ;  and  during  my  first  visit  to  London, 
which  was  for  three  months  in  1760,  Mr.  Derrick,  the  poet,  who 
was  Gentleman's  friend  and  countryman,  flattered  me  with  hopes 
that  he  would  introduce  me  to  Johnson,  an  honour  of  which  I  was 
very  ambitious.  But  he  never  found  an  opportunity ;  which 
made  me  doubt  that  he  had  promised  to  do  what  was  not  in  his 
power  ;  till  Johnson  some  years  afterwards  told  me,  "  Derrick, 
sir,  might  very  well  have  introduced  you.  I  had  a  kindness  for 
Derrick,  and  am  sony  he  is  dead." 

Mr.  Thomas  Davies  the  actor,  who  then  kept  a  bookseller's 
shop  in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden,  told  me  that  Johnson  was 
very  much  his  friend,  and  came  frequently  to  his  house,  where  he 
more  than  once  invited  me  to  meet  him  ;  but  by  some  unlucky 
accident  or  other  he  was  prevented  from  coming  to  us. 

Mr.  Thomas  Davies  was  a  man  of  good  understanding  and 
talents,  with  the  advantage  of  a  liberal  education.  Though  some- 
what pompous,  he  was  an  entertaining  companion  ;  and  his 
literary  performances  have  no  inconsiderable  share  of  merit.  He 
was  a  friendly  and  very  hospitable  man.  Both  he  and  his  wife 
(who  has  been  celebrated  for  her  beauty),  though  upon  the  stage 
for  many  years,  maintained  a  uniform  decency  of  character  :  and 
Johnson  esteemed  them,  and  lived  in  as  easy  an  intimacy  with 
them  as  with  any  family  he  used  to  visit.  Mr.  Davies  recollected 
several  of  Johnson's  remarkable  sayings,  and  was  one  of  the  best 
of  the  many  imitators  of  his  voice  and  manner,  while  relating 
them.  He  increased  my  impatience  more  and  more  to  see  the 
extraordinary  man  whose  works  I  highly  valued,  and  whose  con- 
versation was  reported  to  be  so  peculiarly  excellent. 

At  last,  on  Monday  the  i6th  of  May,  when  I  was  sitting  in 
Mr.    Davies's  back  parlour,  after  having  drunk  tea  with  him  and 


486  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson  unexpectedly  came  into  the  shop  ;  and  Mr. 
Davies  having  perceived  him  through  the  glass-door  in  the  room 
in  which  we  were  sitting,  advancing  towards  us, — he  announced 
his  awful  approach  to  me,  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  an  actor  in 
the  part  of  Horatio,  when  he  addresses  Hamlet  on  the  appearance 
of  his  father's  ghost,  "  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes."  I  found  that  I 
had  a  veiy  perfect  idea  of  Johnson's  figure  from  the  portrait  of 
him  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  soon  after  he  had  published 
his  Dictionary,  in  the  attitude  of  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  in  deep 
meditation  ;  which  was  the  first  picture  his  friend  did  for  him, 
which  Sir  Joshua  very  kindly  presented  to  me  (and  from  which  an 
engraving  has  been  made  for  this  work).  Mr.  Davies  mentioned 
my  name,  and  respectfully  introduced  me  to  him.  I  was  much 
agitated  ;  and  recollecting  his  prejudice  against  the  Scotch,  of 
which  I  had  heard  much,  I  said  to  Davies,  "  Don't  tell  where  I 
come  from." — "  From  Scotland,"  cried  Davies,  roguishly.  "  Mr. 
Johnson,"  said  I,  "  I  do  indeed  come  from  Scotland,  but  I  cannot 
help  it."  I  am  willing  to  flatter  myself  that  I  meant  this  as  light 
pleasantry  to  soothe  and  conciliate  him,  and  not  as  a  humiliating 
abasement  at  the  expense  of  my  country.  But  however  that 
might  be,  this  speech  was  somewhat  unlucky  ;  for  with  that  quick- 
ness of  wit  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable,  he  seized  the  ex- 
pression "  come  from  Scotland,"  which  I  used  in  the  sense  of 
being  of  that  country  ;  and,  as  if  I  had  said  that  I  had  come 
away  from  it,  or  left  it,  retorted,  "  That,  sir,  I  find,  is  what  a  very 
great  many  of  your  countrymen  cannot  help."  This  stroke 
stunned  me  a  good  deal  ;  and  when  we  had  sat  down,  I  felt  my- 
self not  a  little  embarrassed,  and  apprehensive  of  what  might 
come  next.  He  then  addressed  himself  to  Davies  :  "  What  do 
you  think  of  Garrick  ?  He  has  refused  me  an  order  for  the  play 
for  Miss  Williams,  because  he  knows  the  house  will  be  full,  and 
that  an  order  would  be  worth  three  shillings."  Eager  to  take  any 
opening  to  get  into  conversation  with  him,  I  ventured  to  say, 
"  O  sir,  I  cannot  think  Mr.  Garrick  would  grudge  such  a  trifle 
to  you." — "  Sir,"  said  he,  with  a  stern  look,  "  I  have  known 
David  Garrick  longer  than  you  have  done  :  and  I  know  no  right 
you  have  to  talk  to  me  on  the  subject."  Perhaps  I  deserved  this 
check ;  for  it  was  rather  presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire  stranger, 
to  express  any  doubt  of  the  justice  of  his  animadversion  upon  his 
old  acquaintance  and  pupil.  I  now  felt  myself  much  mortified, 
and  began  to  think  that  the  hope  which   I  had  long  indulged  of 


JAMES  BOS  WELL  487 


obtaining  his  acquaintance  was  blasted.  And,  in  truth,  had  not 
my  ardour  been  uncommonly  strong,  and  my  resolution  un- 
commonly persevering,  so  rough  a  reception  might  have  deterred 
me  for  ever  from  making  any  further  attempts.  Fortunately, 
however,  I  remained  upon  the  field  not  wholly  discomfited ;  and 
was  soon  rewarded  by  hearing  some  of  his  conversation. 

(From  Life  of  Johnson.) 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

As  Dr.  Oliver  Goldsmith  will  frequently  appear  in  this  narrative, 
I  shall  endeavour  to  make  my  readers  in  some  degree  accjuainted 
with  his  singular  character.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and  a 
contemporary  with  Mr.  Burke,  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  but  did 
not  then  give  much  promise  of  future  celebrity.  He,  however, 
observed  to  Mr.  Malone,  that  ''  Though  he  made  no  great  figure 
in  mathematics,  which  was  a  study  in  much  repute  there,  he 
could  turn  an  ode  of  Horace  into  English  better  than  any  of 
them."  He  afterwards  studied  physic  at  Edinburgh,  and  upon 
the  continent,  and  I  have  been  informed,  was  enabled  to  pursue 
his  travels  on  foot,  partly  by  demanding  at  universities  to  enter 
the  lists  as  a  disputant,  by  which,  according  to  the  custom  of 
many  of  them,  he  was  entitled  to  the  premium  of  a  crown,  when 
luckily  for  him  his  challenge  was  not  accepted  ;  so  that,  as  I 
once  observed  to  Dr.  Johnson,  he  disputed  his  passage  through 
Europe.  He  then  came  to  England,  and  was  employed  succes- 
sively in  the  capacities  of  an  usher  to  an  academy,  a  corrector  of 
the  press,  a  reviewer,  and  a  writer  for  a  newspaper.  He  had 
sagacity  enough  to  cultivate  assiduously  the  accjuaintance  of 
Johnson,  and  his  faculties  were  gradually  enlarged  by  the 
contemplation  of  such  a  model.  To  me  and  many  others  it 
appeared  that  he  studiously  copied  the  manner  of  Johnson,  though, 
indeed,  upon  a  smaller  scale. 

At  this  time  I  think  he  had  published  nothing  with  his  name, 
though  it  was  pretty  generally  known  that  one  Dr.  Goldsmith  was 
the  author  of  An  Lnqieiry  into  the  L^ resent  State  of  Polite  Learning 
in  Europe,  and  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a  series  of  letters 
supposed   to  be   written  from   London   by  a    Chinese.      No   man 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


had  the  art  of  displaying  with  more  advantage  as  a  writer,  what- 
ever hterary  acquisitions  he  made.  NiJiil  quod  tctigit  iion 
or?iavit.  His  mind  resembled  a  fertile,  but  thin  soil.  There 
was  a  quick,  but  not  a  strong  vegetation  of  whatever  chanced  to 
be  thrown  upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck.  The  oak  of 
the  forest  did  not  grow  there  ;  but  the  elegant  shrubbery  and  the 
fragrant  parterre  appeared  in  gay  succession.  It  has  been 
generally  circulated  and  believed  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in 
conversation  ;  but  in  truth,  this  has  been  greatly  exaggerated. 
He  had,  no  doubt,  a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry  of 
ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which  some- 
times produces  a  laughable  confusion  in  expressing  them.  He 
was  very  much  what  the  French  call  u?i  etourdi^  and  from  vanity 
and  an  eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherever  he  was,  he 
frequently  talked  carelessly  without  knowledge  of  the  subject,  or  even 
without  thought.  His  person  was  short,  his  countenance  coarse  and 
vulgar,  his  deportment  that  of  a  scholar  awkwardly  affecting  the 
easy  gentleman.  Those  who  were  in  any  way  distinguished, 
excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridiculous  an  excess,  that  the  instances 
of  it  are  hardly  credible.  When  accompanying  two  beautiful 
young  ladies  with  their  mother  on  a  tour  in  France,  he  was 
seriously  angry  that  more  attention  was  paid  to  them  than  to 
him  ;  and  once  at  the  exhibition  of  the  Faiitoccmi  in  London, 
when  those  who  sat  next  him  observed  with  what  dexterity 
a  puppet  was  made  to  toss  a  pike,  he  could  not  bear  that  it 
should  have  such  praise,  and  exclaimed  with  some  warmth, 
"  Pshaw  !   I  can  do  it  better  myself" 

He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system  of  any  sort,  so  that 
his  conduct  must  not  be  strictly  scrutinised  ;  but  his  affections  were 
social  and  generous,  and  when  he  had  money  he  gave  it  away 
very  liberally.  His  desire  of  imaginary  consequence  predominated 
over  his  attention  to  truth.  When  he  began  to  rise  into  notice, 
he  said  he  had  a  brother  who  was  Dean  of  Durham,  a  fiction  so 
easily  detected,  that  it  was  wonderful  how  he  should  have  been  so 
inconsiderate  as  to  hazard  it.  He  boasted  to  me  at  this  time  of 
the  power  of  his  pen  in  commanding  money,  which  I  believe  was 
true  in  a  certain  degree,  though  in  the  instance  he  gave  he  was  by 
no  means  correct.  He  told  me  that  he  had  sold  a  novel  for  four 
hundred  pounds.  This  was  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  But 
Johnson  informed  me,  that  he  had  made  the  bargain  for  Goldsmith 
and    the    price    was   sixty   pounds.       "And,    sir,"    said    he,    "a 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


sufficient  price  too,  when  it  was  sold  ;  for  then  the  fame  of 
Goldsmith  had  not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards  was,  by  his 
Traveller;  and  the  bookseller  had  such  faint  hopes  of  profit  by 
his  bargain,  that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him  a  long  time,  and 
did  not  publish  it  till  after  the  Traveller  had  appeared.  Then, 
to  be  sure,  it  was  accidentally  worth  more  money." 

Mrs.  Piozzi  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  have  strangely  misstated 
the  history  of  Goldsmith's  situation  and  Johnson's  friendly 
interference,  when  this  novel  was  sold.  I  shall  give  it  authenti- 
cally from  Johnson's  own  exact  narration  : 

"  I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that 
he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come 
to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  1 
sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I 
accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  drest,  and  found  that  his  landlady 
had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent 
passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea, 
and  had  got  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put 
the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to 
talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He 
then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he 
produced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  merit  ;  told  the 
landlady  I  should  soon  return,  and  having  gone  to  a  bookseller, 
sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and 
he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high 
tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill.  ^j,.^^^^  ^j^^  3^^^^^^ 


JOHNSON'S  PECULIARITIES  OF   MANNER 

He  had  another  particularity  of  which  none  of  his  friends  even 
ventured  to  ask  an  explanation.  It  appeared  to  me  some  super- 
stitious habit,  which  he  had  contracted  early,  and  from  which  he 
had  never  called  upon  his  reason  to  disentangle  him.  This  was 
his  anxious  care  to  go  out  or  in  at  a  door  or  passage,  by  a  certain 
number  of  steps  from  a  certain  point,  or  at  least  so  as  that  either 
his  right  or  his  left  foot  (I  am  not  certain  which),  should  con- 
stantly make  the  first  actual  movement  when  he  came  close  to 
the  door  or  passage.  Thus  I  conjecture  :  for  I  have,  upon 
innumerable  occasions,   observed   him    suddenly   stop,   and   then 


49°  ENGLISH  PROSE 


seem  to  count  his  steps  with  a  deep  earnestness  ;  and  when  he 
had  neglected  or  gone  wrong  in  this  sort  of  magical  movement,  I 
have  seen  him  go  back  again,  put  himself  in  a  proper  posture  to 
begin  the  ceremony,  and,  having  gone  through  it,  break  from  his 
abstraction,  walk  briskly  on,  and  join  his  companion.  A  strange 
instance  of  something  of  this  nature,  even  when  on  horseback, 
happened  when  he  was  in  the  Isle  of  Sky  {Jour7ial  of  a  Tour  to 
the  Hebrides).  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  observed  him  to  go  a 
good  way  about,  rather  than  cross  a  particular  alley  in  Leicester 
Fields  ;  but  this  Sir  Joshua  imputed  to  his  having  had  some  dis- 
agreeable recollection  associated  with  it. 

That  the  most  minute  singularities  which  belonged  to  him, 
and  made  very  observable  parts  of  his  appearance  and  manner, 
may  not  be  omitted,  it  is  recjuisite  to  mention,  that  while  talking 
or  even  musing  as  he  sat  in  his  chair,  he  commonly  held  his 
head  to  one  side  towards  his  right  shoulder,  and  shook  it  in  a 
tremulous  manner,  moving  his  body  backwards  and  forwards,  and 
rubbing  his  left  knee  in  the  same  direction,  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  In  the  intervals  of  articulating  he  made  various  sounds 
with  his  mouth,  sometimes  as  if  ruminating,  or  what  is  called 
chewing  the  cud,  sometimes  giving  half  a  whistle,  sometimes 
making  his  tongue  play  backwards  from  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
as  if  clucking  like  a  hen,  and  sometimes  protruding  it  against  his 
upper  g'ums  in  front,  as  if  pronouncing  quickly  under  his  breath, 
too.,  too,  too :  all  this  accompanied  sometimes  with  a  thoughtful 
look,  but  more  frequently  with  a  smile.  Generally  when  he  had 
concluded  a  period,  in  the  course  of  a  dispute,  by  which  time  he 
was  a  good  deal  exhausted  by  violence  and  vociferation,  he  used 
to  blow  out  his  breath  like  a  whale.  This  I  suppose  was  a  relief 
to  his  lungs  ;  and  seemed  in  him  to  be  a  contemptuous  mode  of 
expression,  as  if  he  had  made  the  arguments  of  his  opponent  fly 
like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

I  am  fully  aware  how  very  obvious  an  occasion  I  here  give  for 
the  sneering  jocularity  of  such  as  have  no  relish  of  an  exact 
likeness  ;  which  to  render  complete,  he  who  draws  it  must  not 
disdain  the  slightest  strokes.  But  if  witlings  should  be  inclined 
to  attack  this  account,  let  them  have  the  candour  to  quote  what  I 
have  offered  in  my  defence. 

(From  the  Same.) 


JAMES  BOSWELL  491 


JOHNSON'S    INTERVIEW  WITH   THE   KING 

His  Majesty  having  been  informed  of  his  occasional  visits,  was 
pleased  to  signify  a  desire  that  he  should  be  told  when  Dr. 
Johnson  came  next  to  the  liljrary.  Accordingly,  the  next  time 
that  Johnson  did  come,  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly  engaged  with  a 
book,  on  which,  while  he  sat  by  the  fire,  he  seemed  quite  intent, 
Mr.  Barnard  stole  round  to  the  apartment  where  the  King  was, 
and,  in  obedience  to  his  Majesty's  commands,  mentioned  that  Dr. 
Johnson  was  then  in  the  library.  His  Majesty  said  he  was  at 
leisure,  and  would  go  to  him ;  upon  which  Mr.  Barnard  took 
one  of  the  candles  that  stood  on  the  King's  table,  and  lighted  his 
Majesty  through  a  suite  of  rooms,  till  they  came  to  a  private  door 
into  the  library,  of  which  his  Majesty  had  the  key.  Being 
entered,  Mr.  Barnard  stepped  forward  hastily  to  Di'.  Johnson, 
who  was  still  in  a  profound  study,  and  whispered  him  "  Sir,  here 
is  the  King."  Johnson  started  up,  and  stood  still.  His  Majesty 
approached  him,  and  at  once  was  courteously  easy. 

His  Majesty  began  by  observing,  that  he  understood  he  came 
sometimes  to  the  library  ;  and  then  mentioned  his  having  heard 
that  the  Doctor  had  been  lately  at  Oxford,  and  asked  him  if  he 
was  not  fond  of  going  thither.  To  which  Johnson  answered, 
that  he  was  indeed  fond  of  going  to  Oxford  sometimes,  but  was 
likewise  glad  to  come  back  again.  The  King  then  asked  him 
what  they  were  doing  at  Oxford.  Johnson  answered,  he  could 
not  much  commend  their  diligence,  Ijut  that  in  some  respects  they 
were  mended,  for  they  had  put  their  press  under  better  regula- 
tions, and  were  at  that  time  printing  Polybius.  He  was  then 
asked  whether  there  were  better  liljraries  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge. 
He  answered,  he  believed  the  Bodleian  was  larger  than  any  they 
had  at  Cambridge  ;  at  the  same  time  adding,  "  I  hope,  whether 
we  have  more  books  or  not  than  they  have  at  Cambridge,  we 
shall  make  as  good  use  of  them  as  they  do."  Being-  asked 
whether  All  Souls  or  Christ  Church  library  was  the  largest,  he 
answered,  "  All  Souls  library  is  the  largest  we  have,  except  the 
Bodleian."      "Ay,"  said  the  King,  "that  is  the  public  library." 

His  Majesty  inquired  if  he  was  then  writing  anything.  He 
answered,  he  was  not,  for  he  had  pretty  well  told  the  world  what 
he  knew,  and  must  now  read  to  accjuire  more  knowledge.  The 
King,  as  it  should  seem  with  a  view  to  urge  him  to  rely  on  his 


492  ENGLISH  PROSE 


own  stores  as  an  original  writer,  and  to  continue  his  labours,  then 
said,  "  I  do  not  think  you  borrow  much  from  any  body." 
Johnson  said,  he  thought  he  had  aheady  done  his  part  as  a 
writer.  "  I  should  have  thought  so  too,"  said  the  King,  "  if  you 
had  not  written  so  well."^ — Johnson  observed  to  me,  upon  this, 
that  "  No  man  could  have  paid  a  handsomer  compliment ;  and  it 
was  fit  for  a  king  to  pay.  It  was  decisive."  When  asked  by 
another  friend,  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's,  whether  he  made  any 
reply  to  this  high  compliment,  he  answered,  "  No,  sir.  When 
the  King  had  said  it,  it  was  to  be  so.  It  was  not  for  me  to  bandy 
civilities  with  my  Sovei-eign."  Perhaps  no  man  who  had  spent 
his  whole  life  in  courts  could  have  shown  a  more  nice  and 
dignified  sense  of  true  politeness,  than  Johnson  did  in  this  instance. 

His  Majesty  having  observed  to  him  that  he  supposed  he 
must  have  read  a  great  deal ;  Johnson  answered,  that  he  thought 
more  than  he  read  ;  that  he  had  read  a  great  deal  in  the  early 
part  of  his  life,  but  having  fallen  into  ill  health,  he  had  not  been 
able  to  read  much,  compared  with  others  :  for  instance,  he  said 
he  had  not  read  much,  compared  with  Dr.  Warburton.  Upon 
which  the  King  said,  that  he  heard  Dr.  Warburton  was  a  man  of 
such  general  knowledge,  that  you  could  scarce  talk  with  him  on 
any  subject  on  which  he  was  not  qualified  to  speak  ;  and  that  his 
learning  resembled  Garrick's  acting,  in  its  universality.  His 
Majesty  then  talked  of  the  controversy  between  Warburton  and 
Lowth,  which  he  seemed  to  have  read,  and  asked  Johnson  what 
he  thought  of  it.  Johnson  answered,  "  Warburton  has  most 
general,  most  scholastic  learning ;  Lowth  is  the  more  correct 
scholar.  I  do  not  know  which  of  them  calls  names  best."  The 
King  was  pleased  to  say  he  was  of  the  same  opinion  ;  adding, 
"  You  do  not  think  then.  Dr.  Johnson,  that  there  was  much 
argument  in  the  case."  Johnson  said,  he  did  not  think  there  was. 
"  Why,  truly,"  said  the  King,  "  when  once  it  comes  to  calling 
names,  argument  is  pretty  well  at  an  end." 

His  Majesty  then  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  Lord  Lyttelton's 
history,  which  was  then  published.  Johnson  said,  he  thought  his 
style  pretty  good,  but  that  he  had  blamed  Henry  the  Second 
rather  too  much.  "Why,"  said  the  King,  "they  seldom  do  these 
things  by  halves."  "  No,  sir,"  answered  Johnson,  "  not  to 
kings."  But  fearing  to  be  misunderstood,  he  proceeded  to  ex- 
plain himself,  and  immediately  subjoined  :  "  That  for  those  who 
spoke  worse  of  Kings  than  they  deserved,  he  could  find  no  excuse, 


JAMES  BOSWELL  493 


but  that  he  could  more  easily  conceive  how  some  might  speak 
better  of  them  than  they  deserved,  without  any  ill  intention  ;  for, 
as  kings  had  much  in  their  power  to  give,  those  who  were 
favoured  by  them  would  frequently,  from  gratitude,  exaggerate 
their  praises  ;  and  as  this  proceeded  from  a  good  motive,  it  was 
certainly  excusable,  as  far  as  error  could  be  excusable." 

The  King  then  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  Dr.  Hill. 
Johnson  answered,  that  he  was  an  ingenious  man,  but  had  no 
veracity  ;  and  immediately  mentioned,  as  an  instance  of  it,  an 
assertion  of  that  writer,  that  he  had  seen  objects  magnified  to  a 
much  greater  degree  by  using  three  or  four  microscopes  at  a  time 
than  by  using  one.  "Now,"  added  Johnson,  "every  one  ac- 
quainted with  microscopes  knows,  that  the  more  of  them  he  looks 
through,  the  less  the  object  will  appear."  "Why,"  replied  the 
King,  "  this  is  not  only  telling  an  untruth,  but  telling  it  clumsily  ; 
for,  if  that  be  the  case,  every  one  who  can  look  through  a  micro- 
scope will  be  able  to  detect  him." 

"  I  now,"  said  Johnson  to  his  friends,  when  relating  what  had 
passed,  "  began  to  consider  that  I  was  depreciating  this  man  in 
the  estimation  of  his  Sovereign,  and  thought  it  was  time  for  me 
to  say  something  that  might  be  more  favourable."  He  added, 
therefore,  that  Dr.  Hill  was,  notwithstanding,  a  very  curious 
observer  ;  and  if  he  would  have  been  contented  to  tell  the  world 
no  more  than  he  knew,  he  might  have  been  a  very  considerable 
man,  and  needed  not  to  have  recourse  to  such  mean  expedients 
to  raise  his  reputation. 

The  King  then  talked  of  literary  journals,  mentioned  particu- 
larly the  Journal  des  Savans,  and  asked  Johnson  if  it  was  well 
done.  Johnson  said,  it  was  formerly  very  well  done,  and  gave 
some  account  of  the  persons  who  began  it,  and  carried  it  on  for 
some  years  :  enlarging  at  the  same  time  on  the  nature  and  use  of 
such  works.  The  King  asked  him  if  it  was  well  done  now. 
Johnson  answered,  he  had  no  reason  to  think  that  it  was.  The 
King  then  asked  him  if  there  were  any  other  literary  journals 
published  in  this  kingdom,  except  the  Mo7itJily  and  Cfitical 
Reviews;  and  on  being  answered  there  was  no  other,  his 
Majesty  asked  which  of  them  was  the  best :  Johnson  answered, 
that  the  Monthly  Review  was  done  with  most  care,  the  Cfilical 
upon  the  best  principles  ;  adding  that  the  authors  of  the  Monthly 
Review  were  enemies  to  the  Church.  This  the  King  said  he 
was  sorr)'  to  hear. 


494  ENGLISH  PROSE 


The  conversation  next  turned  on  the  Philosophical  Transac- 
tions, when  Johnson  observed  that  they  liad  now  a  better  method 
of  arranging  their  materials  than  formerly.  "  Ay,"  said  the  King, 
"  they  are  obliged  to  Dr.  Johnson  for  that  ;  "  for  his  Majesty  had 
heard  and  remembered  the  circumstance,  which  Johnson  himself 
had  forgot. 

His  Majesty  expressed  a  desire  to  have  the  literary  biography 
of  this  country  ably  executed,  and  proposed  to  Dr.  Johnson  to 
undertake  it.  Johnson  signified  his  readiness  to  comply  with  his 
Majesty's  wishes. 

During  the  whole  of  this  interview,  Johnson  talked  to  his 
Majesty  with  profound  respect,  but  still  in  his  firm  manly  manner, 
with  a  sonorous  voice,  and  never  in  that  subdued  tone  which  is 
commonly  used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing-room.  After  the 
King  withdrew,  Johnson  showed  himself  highly  pleased  with  his 
Majesty's  conversation,  and  gracious  behaviour.  He  said  to  Mr. 
Barnard,  "  Sir,  they  may  talk  of  the  King  as  they  will  ;  but  he  is 
the  finest  gentleman  I  have  ever  seen."  And  he  afterward 
observed  to  Mr.  Langton,  "Sir,  his  manners  are  those  of  as  fine 
a  gentleman  as  we  may  suppose  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  or  Charles 
the  Second."  ^^^.^^  ^hc  Same.) 


CLEAR    YOUR    MIND    OF    CANT 

I  HAVE  no  minute  of  any  interview  with  Johnson  till  Thursday, 
May  I  5th,  when  I  find  what  follows  : — Boswell  :  "  I  wish  much 
to  be  in  Parliament,  sir." — Johnson  :  "  Why,  sir,  unless  you 
come  resolved  to  support  any  administration,  you  would  be  the 
worse  for  being  in  Parliament,  because  you  would  be  obliged  to 
live  more  expensively." — ^Boswell  :  "  Perhaps,  sir,  I  should  be 
the  less  happy  for  being  in  Parliament.  I  never  would  sell  my 
vote,  and  I  should  be  vexed  if  things  went  wrong." — JOHNSON  : 
"That's  cant,  sir.  It  would  not  vex  you  more  in  the  House 
than  in  the  gallery  :  public  affairs  vex  no  man." — Boswell  : 
"  Have  not  they  vexed  yourself  a  little,  sir  ?  Have  not  you  been 
vexed  by  all  the  turbulence  of  this  reign,  and  by  that  absurd  vote 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  'That  the  influence  of  the  Crown  has 
increased,  is  increasing,  and  ought  to  be  diminished'  ?" — JOHNSON  : 
"Sir,  I  have  never  slept  an  hour  less,  nor  ate  an  ounce  less  meat. 


JAMES  BOSWELL  495 


I  would  have  knocked  tlie  factious  dog  on  the  head,  to  be  sure  ; 
but  I  was  not  vexed." — Boswell  :  "  Sir,  upon  my  honour,  I  did 
imagine  I*  was  vexed,  and  took  a  pride  in  it  ;  but  it  was,  perhaps, 
cant ;  for  I  own  I  neither  ate  less,  nor  slept  less." — JOHNSON  : 
"  My  dear  friend,  clear  your  7)iifid  of  cant.  You  may  /a!k  as 
other  people  do  :  you  may  say  to  a  man,  '  Sir,  I  am  your  most 
humble  servant.'  You  are  ftof  his  most  humble  servant.  You 
may  say,  '  These  are  bad  times  ;  it  is  a  melancholy  thing  to  be 
reserved  to  such  times.'  You  don't  mind  the  times.  You  tell  a 
man,  '  I  am  sorry  you  had  such  bad  weather  the  last  day  of  your 
journey,  and  were  so  much  wet.'  You  don't  care  sixpence 
whether  he  is  wet  or  dry.  You  may  ta/k  in  this  manner  ;  it  is  a 
mode  of  talking  in  society  :  but  don't  /hifik  foolishly." 

(From  the  Same.) 


WILLIAM   PALEY 


[William  Paley,  born  at  Peterborough,  1743,  and  brought  up  at  his  father's 
school  at  Giggleswick,  West  Riding,  became  sizar  of  Christ's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, 1758  ;  was  Senior  Wrangler,  1763  ;  defended  Epicureanism  against 
Stoicism  in  a  University  Prize  Essay,  1765  ;  and  became  Fellow  of  his  College, 
1766.  His  friend,  Edmund  Law,  becoming  Bishop  of  Carlisle  in  1769,  made 
Paley  his  chaplain.  Paley  supported  Law's  pamphlet  in  criticism  of  the  re- 
quired subscription  to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  :  ' '  Confessions  of  Faith  ought  to 
be  converted  into  Articles  of  Peace"  (A/or.  and  Pol.  Phil.,  Bk.  vi.,  chap. 
X.)  ;  but  he  would  not  join  the  petition  of  clergymen  in  1772  for  relief  from 
subscription.  He  became  Rector  of  Musgrove,  Westmoreland,  1775,  o^ 
Appleby  1777,  Prebendary  of  Carlisle  1780,  and  Archdeacon  of  Carlisle  (his 
best  known  title)  1782. 

In  1785  he  published  his  Principles  of  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy, 
in  1790  his  Horcc  Paiilin(r,  and  in  1794  his  View  of  the  Evidences  if  Chris- 
tianity. Rector  of  Bishop-Wearmouth,  in  Durham,  1795,  he  devoted  his  leisure 
to  anatomy,  and  in  spite  of  great  bodily  suffering  published  in  1802  his 
Natural  Theology.      He  died  in  1805.] 

Paley  is  not  among  the  authors  either  wholly  loved  or  wholly 
admired.  He  is  a  clear  reasoner,  a  "man  of  probity  and  good 
sense,"  who  is  laudably  anxious  that  sound  morals,  the  canon  of 
Scripture,  the  truth  of  Christianity  and  Theism  should  be  made 
matters  of  demonstration  as  well  as  faith.  He  is  said  to  have 
sowed  his  wild  oats  at  college  ;  and  in  after  life,  though  he  did 
not  disdain  amusement  in  the  form  of  trout-fishing  and  card- 
playing,  he  was  the  embodiment  of  the  respectable  virtues.  His 
moral  philosophy  resolves  all  virtue  into  prudence.  "  Virtue,"  he 
says,  ."  is  the  doing  good  to  mankind,  in  obedience  to  the  will  of 
God,  and  for  the  sake  of  everlasting  happiness," — a  definition  not 
now  accepted  by  any  school  of  moral  philosophers,  but  at  least 
superficially  in  harmony  with  the  doctrines  of  the  Church.  But  his 
element  is  circumstantial  evidence  ;  and  he  finds  himself  in  it  in 
his  Ilorce  Paulimc,  where  he  tries  to  prove  the  harmony  of 
the  Epistles  with  the  Acts,  and  with  one  another,  by  pointing  out 
VOL.  IV  2  K 


498  ENGLISH  PROSE 


a  multitude  of  "  undesigned  coincidences."  This  is  the  only  book 
in  which  he  has  ventured  to  be  original,  for  the  Moral  and  Poli- 
tical Philosophy  is  in  debt  to  Abraham  Tucker,  the  Evidences  of 
Chrisiianity  to  Lardner,  and  the  Natural  Pheology  to  Nieuwentyt, 
"  the  Religious  Philosopher."  But  if  he  borrowed  from  others, 
he  made  the  others  more  readable.  Life  is  too  short  for  the 
reading  of  many  such  books  as  Tucker's  Light  of  Nature  in  nine 
octavo  volumes ;  the  pages  of  Paley  are  always  terse  and  intelligible 
It  is  true  he  has  little  humour ;  and  if  we  see  irony  in  the 
description  of  an  imaginary  private  property  among  pigeons  {Jlfor. 
and  Pol.  Phil.,  iii.  i),  the  context  shows  him  to  be  quite  unconscious 
of  it.  Whether  talking  on  things  small  or  great,  human  or  divine, 
he  has  all  the  seriousness  of  a  counsel  defending  a  prisoner  accused 
of  murder. 

The  evidences  of  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  the 
proofs  of  the  being  of  a  God  had  never  been  presented  in  a  form 
that  seemed  to  bring  them  so  nearly  within  the  grasp  of  the 
ordinary  human  understanding.  Yet  after  loo  years  Paley's 
work  on  the  subject  seems  to  have  many  defects.  In  particular 
the  Argument  from  Design  is,  as  he  gave  it,  founded  too  narrowly 
on  the  analogies  of  physical  mechanism.  The  very  facts  of  physi- 
ology, so  carefully  and  minutely  described  (such  as  the  pheno- 
mena of  seeing  and  hearing),  and  the  facts  of  biology  as  to  the 
growth  of  life  in  the  world,  are  all  translated  into  terms  of 
mechanical  adaptation  and  compared  to  the  watch  or  the  windlass. 
He  bore  the  stamp  of  his  time. 

It  is  fairer  to  point  to  such  defects  in  philosophical  argument 
than  to  treat  Paley's  reasoning  as  discredited  throughout  by  an 
arriere-pensee.  No  doubt  like  most  men  he  did  not  refuse 
advancement,  and  he  may  even  have  courted  it.  But  the  social 
optimism  which  made  him  think  that  the  labourers  of  England  had 
nearly  every  reason  in  1791  to  be  contented  with  their  condition 
is  of  a  piece  with  the  metaphysical  optimism  which  made  him 
regard  the  organisation  of  living  beings  as  nearly  perfect.  It 
seems  also  true  that  his  theology,  which  gave  character  to  his 
utilitarianism,  (jualified  his  optimism.  The  world  is  a  place  of 
probation,  and  therefore  is  not  perfect.  Christianity  would  make 
men  perfectly  happy  ;  but  it  has  not  been  universally  accepted 
{Evid..,  Part  III.  chap.  vi.).  Paley  is  theologian  first  and  philo- 
sopher afterwards. 

J.   BONAR. 


A   POPULAR   MAXIM    EXAMINED 

[After  disputing  the  saying  that  circumstantial  evidence  falls 
short  of  positive  proof,  he  goes  on  : — ] 

The  other  maxim  which  deserves  a  similar  examination  is  this  : — 
"  That  it  is  better  that  ten  guilty  persons  escape,  than  that 
one  innocent  man  should  suffer."  If  by  saying  it  is  better  be  meant 
that  it  is  more  for  the  public  advantage,  the  proposition,  I  think 
cannot  be  maintained.  The  security  of  civil  life,  which  is  essential 
to  the  value  and  the  enjoyment  of  every  blessing  it  contains,  and 
the  interruption  of  which  is  followed  by  universal  misery  and 
confusion,  is  protected  chiefly  by  the  dread  of  punishment.  The 
misfortune  of  an  individual  (for  such  may  the  sufferings,  or  even 
the  death,  of  an  innocent  person  be  called  when  they  are 
occasioned  by  no  evil  intention)  cannot  be  placed  in  competition 
with  this  object.  I  do  not  contend  that  the  life  or  safety  of  the 
meanest  subject  ought,  in  any  case,  to  be  knowingly  sacrificed  : 
no  principle  of  judicature,  no  end  of  punishment  can  ever  re- 
quire tliat. 

But,  when  certain  rules  of  adjudication  must  be  pursued,  when 
certain  degrees  of  credibility  must  be  accepted  in  order  to  reach 
the  crimes  with  which  the  public  are  infested  ;  courts  of  justice 
should  not  be  deterred  from  the  application  of  these  rules  by 
every  suspicion  of  danger,  or  by  the  mere  possibility  of  con- 
founding the  innocent  with  the  guilty.  They  ought  rather  to 
reflect,  that  he  who  falls  by  a  mistaken  sentence,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  falling  for  his  country,  whilst  he  suffers  under  the 
operation  of  those  rules,  by  the  general  effect  and  tendency  of 
which  the  welfare  of  the  community  is  maintained  and  upholden. 

(From  Moral  ami  Political  PhilosopJiy.) 

ST.    I'AUL 

Here  then  we  have  a  man  of  liberal  attainments,  and  in  other 
points  of  sound  judgment,  who  had  addicted  his  life  to  the  service 


500  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  the  Gospel.  We  see  him,  in  the  prosecution  of  his  purpose, 
travelHng  from  country  to  country,  enduring  every  species  of 
hardship,  encountering  every  extremity  of  danger,  assauked  by 
the  populace,  punished  by  the  magistrates,  scourged,  beat,  stoned, 
left  for  dead  ;  expecting,  wherever  he  came,  a  renewal  of  the 
same  treatment  and  the  same  dangers,  yet,  when  driven  from  one 
city,  preaching  in  the  next  ;  spending  his  whole  time  in  the 
employment,  sacrificing  to  it  his  pleasures,  his  ease,  his  safety, 
persisting  in  this  course  to  old  age,  unaltered  by  the  experience 
of  perverseness,  ingratitude,  prejudice,  desertion  ;  unsubdued  by 
anxiety,  want,  labour,  persecutions  ;  unwearied  by  long  confine- 
ment, undismayed  by  the  prospect  of  death.  Such  was  St.  Paul. 
We  have  his  letters  in  our  hand  ;  we  have  also  a  history  purport- 
ing to  be  written  by  one  of  his  fellow-travellers,  and  appearing,  by 
a  comparison  with  these  letters,  certainly  to  have  been  written 
by  some  person  well  accjuainted  with  the  transactions  of  his  life. 
From  the  letters,  as  well  as  from  the  history,  we  gather  not  only  the 
account  which  we  have  stated  of /«';;/,  but  that  he  was  one  out  of  many 
who  acted  and  suffered  in  the  same  manner  ;  and  that  of  those  who 
did  so,  several  had  been  the  companions  of  Christ's  ministry,  the 
ocular  witnesses,  or  pretending  to  be  such,  of  his  miracles,  and  of  his 
resurrection.  We  moreover  find  this  same  person  referring  in  his 
letters  to  his  supernatural  conversion,  the  particulars  and  accom- 
panying circumstances  of  which  are  related  in  the  history,  and 
which  accompanying  circumstances,  if  all  or  any  of  them  be  true, 
render  it  impossible  to  have  been  a  delusion.  We  also  find  him 
positively,  and  in  approjDriated  terms,  asserting  that  he  himself 
worked  miracles,  strictly  and  properly  so  called,  in  support  of  the 
mission  which  he  executed  ;  the  history,  meanwhile,  recording 
various  passages  of  his  ministry,  which  come  up  to  the  extent  of 
this  assertion.  The  cjuestion  is,  whether  falsehood  was  ever 
attested  by  evidence  like  this.  Falsehoods,  we  know,  have  found 
their  way  into  reports,  into  tradition,  into  books  ;  but  is  an  example 
to  be  met  with  of  a  man  voluntarily  undertaking  a  life  of  want 
and  pain,  of  incessant  fatigue,  of  continual  peril  ;  submitting  to 
the  loss  of  his  home  and  country,  to  stripes  and  stoning,  to  tedious 
imprisonment,  and  the  constant  expectation  of  a  violent  death,  for 
the  sake  of  carrying  about  a  story  of  what  was  false,  and  of  what 
if  false  he  must  have  known  to  be  so  ? 


(From  Horcc  Paiilittcc.) 


WILLIAM  PA  LEY  501 


THE  ADVANTAGE  OF   PROOFS   FOR  THE 
BEING  OF  GOD 

In  all  cases  wherein  the  mind  feels  itself  in  danger  of  being  con- 
founded by  variety,  it  is  sure  to  rest  upon  a  few  strong  points,  or 
perhaps  upon  a  single  instance.  Amongst  a  multitude  of  proofs 
it  is  one  that  does  the  business.  If  we  observe  in  any  argument 
that  hardly  any  two  minds  fix  upon  the  same  instance,  the 
diversity  of  choice  shows  the  strength  of  the  argument,  because 
it  shows  the  number  and  competition  of  the  examples.  There  is 
no  subject  in  which  the  tendency  to  dwell  upon  select  or  single 
topics  is  so  usual,  because  there  is  no  subject,  of  which,  in  its 
full  extent,  the  latitude  is  so  great,  as  that  of  natural  history 
applied  to  the  proof  of  an  intelligent  Creator.  For  my  part,  I 
take  my  stand  in  human  anatomy  ;  and  the  examples  of 
mechanism  I  should  be  apt  to  draw  out  from  the  copious  catalogue 
which  it  supplies  are, — the  pivot  on  which  the  head  turns,  the 
ligament  within  the  socket  of  the  hip-joint,  the  pulley  or  trochlear 
muscles  of  the  eye,  the  epiglottis,  the  bandages  which  tie  down  the 
tendons  of  the  wrist  and  instep,  the  slit  or  perforated  muscles  at 
the  hands  and  feet,  the  knitting  of  the  intestines  to  the  mesentery, 
the  course  of  the  chyle  into  the  blood,  and  the  constitution  of  the 
sexes  as  extended  through  the  whole  of  the  animal  creation.  To 
these  instances  the  reader's  memory  will  go  back,  as  they  are 
generally  set  forth  in  their  places  ;  there  is  not  one  of  the  number 
which  I  do  not  think  decisive  ;  not  one  which  is  not  strictly 
mechanical  ;  nor  have  I  read  or  heard  of  any  solution  of  these 
appearances,  which,  in  the  smallest  degree,  shakes  the  conclusion 
that  we  build  upon  them. 

But,  of  the  greatest  part  of  those,  who,  either  in  this  book  or 
any  other,  read  arguments  to  prove  the  existence  of  a  God,  it  will 
be  said,  that  they  leave  off  only  where  they  began  ;  that  they 
were  never  ignorant  of  this  great  truth,  never  doubted  of  it  ;  that 
it  does  not  therefore  appear,  what  is  gained  by  researches  from 
which  no  new  opinion  is  learnt,  and  upon  the  subject  of  which  no 
proofs  were  wanted.  Now  I  answer,  that,  by  invesiigatio77^  the 
following  points  are  always  gained,  in  favour  of  doctrines  even 
the  most  generally  acknowledged  (supposing  them  to  be  true),  viz., 
stability  and  impression.  Occasions  will  arise  to  try  the  firmness 
of  our  most  habitual  opinions.      Antl  upon  these  occasions  it  is  a 


qo2  ENGLISH  PROSE 


matter  of  incalculable  use  to  feel  our  foundation  ;  to  find  a  support 
in  argument,  for  what  we  had  taken  up  upon  authority.  In  the 
present  case,  the  arguments  upon  which  the  conclusion  rests,  are 
exactly  such,  as  a  truth  of  universal  concern  ought  to  rest  upon. 
"  They  are  sufficiently  open  to  the  views  and  capacities  of  the  un- 
learned, at  the  same  time  that  they  acquire  new  strength  and 
lustre  from  the  discoveries  of  the  learned."  If  they  had  been 
altogether  abstruse  and  recondite,  they  would  not  have  found  their 
way  to  the  understandings  of  the  mass  of  mankind  ;  if  they  had 
been  merely  popular,  they  might  have  wanted  solidity. 

But,  secondly,  what  is  gained  by  research  in  the  stability  of 
our  conclusion,  is  also  gained  from  it  in  impression. 

Physicians  tell  us  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  difference 
between  taking  a  medicine,  and  the  medicine  getting  into  the  con- 
stitution. A  difference  not  unlike  which  obtains  with  respect  to 
those  great  moral  propositions  which  ought  to  form  the  directing 
principles  of  human  conduct.  It  is  one  thing  to  assent  to  a  pro- 
position of  this  sort  ;  another  and  a  very  different  thing,  to  have 
properly  imbibed  its  influence.  I  take  the  case  to  be  this  :  perhaps 
almost  every  man  living  has  a  particular  train  of  thought,  into 
which  his  mind  glides  and  falls,  when  at  leisure  from  the  impres- 
sions and  ideas  that  occasionally  excite  it :  perhaps,  also,  the  train 
of  thought  here  spoken  of,  more  than  any  other  thing,  determines 
the  character.  It  is  of  the  utmost  consequence,  therefore,  that 
this  property  of  our  constitution  be  well  regulated.  Now  it  is  by 
frequent  or  continued  meditation  upon  a  subject,  by  placing  a 
subject  in  different  points  of  view,  by  induction  of  particulars,  by 
variety  of  examples,  by  applying  principles  to  the  solution  of 
phenomena,  by  dwelling  upon  proofs  and  consequences,  that 
mental  exercise  is  drawn  into  any  particular  channel.  It  is  by 
these  means,  at  least,  that  we  have  any  power  over  it.  The  train 
of  spontaneous  thought,  and  the  choice  of  that  train,  may  be 
directed  to  different  ends,  and  may  appear  to  be  more  or  less 
judiciously  fixed,  according  to  the  purpose  in  respect  of  which  we 
consider  it  :  but,  in  a  jnoral  vie%v,  I  shall  not,  I  believe,  be  con- 
tradicted when  1  say,  that,  if  one  train  of  thinking  be  more 
desirable  than  another,  it  is  that  which  regards  the  phenomena  of 
nature  with  a  constant  reference  to  a  supreme  intelligent  Author. 


(From  A'lifi/rn/  T/ieoIogy.) 


HENRY  MACKENZIE 

[The  "  Man  of  Feeling"  is  said  to  have  been  born  at  Edinburgh  in  August 
1745,  on  the  very  day  on  which  Charles  Edward  landed  at  Loch-na-Nuagh 
(which,  however,  is  usually  given  as  the  25th  of  July).  His  father's  name  was 
Joshua,  and  his  mother  was  Margaret  Rose,  of  the  old  Nairnshire  family  of 
Kilravock.  He  was  articled  to  a  lawyer  in  the  special  department  of  Exchequer 
business,  which  he  studied  both  in  Scotland  and  in  London,  the  Exchequer 
being  the  one  court  in  which  Scotch  and  English  practice  and  law  were  the 
same.  He  had  thoughts  of  being  called  to  the  English  bar,  but  returned  to 
Scotland  and  became  Crown  Attorney  there.  He  is  said  to  have  written  The 
Man  of  Feeling  eTixly  ;  it  was  published  (at  first  anonymously)  in  1771,  and 
then  he  followed  it  up  with  his  other  two  novels  Tlie  Man  of  the  World  and 
Julia  de  RoubigriL  He  married  one  of  the  Grants  of  Grant  in  1776,  and  it 
was  shortly  after  this  that  the  plan  was  formed  which  resulted  in  two  periodicals 
on  the  model  of  the  Spectator,  called  The  Mirror  (1779-80)  and  The  Lounger 
(1785-87)  which  still  hold  their  place  in  the  "British  Essayists,"  and  arc 
perhaps  better  worth  reading  than  most  of  the  later  constituents  of  that  volum- 
inous and  neglected  but  far  from  uninteresting  collection.  Mackenzie  was  a 
prominent  member  of  Edinburgh  literary  society,  then  in  its  palmiest  days  ; 
wrote  lives  of  Blacklock  and  of  John  Home,  and  in  1808  published  a  portly 
edition  of  complete  works,  including  some  tragedies  and  a  comedy.  He  was 
appointed  by  Lord  Melville,  Comptroller  of  Taxes  for  Scotland  in  1804,  and 
survived  far  into  a  generation  younger  than  his  own,  dying  in  1831  at  the  age 
of  eighty-six.  Scott,  in  whose  Life  by  Lockhart  many  agreeable  notices  of 
Mackenzie's  green  old  age  will  be  found,  included  the  Man  of  Feeling  and  its 
companions, "with  an  enthusiastic  introduction,  in  the  Ballantyne  collection 
during  their  author's  lifetime.  ] 

Mackenzie  is  one  of  those  writers  who,  though  by  no  means 
uninteresting-  intrinsically,  require  the  historic  estimate  to  bring 
out  their  full  interest  and  value.  On  first  opening  The  Ma7i  of 
Feeling  or  Julia  de  Rouhigm\  the  imitation  of  Sterne  in  the  first 
case,  of  Sterne  and  Rousseau  in  the  second,  is  so  marked  that 
the  modern  reader  may  be  half  inclined  to  put  the  books  aside  as 
mere  schoolwork  if  not  mere  parody.  It  is  certain  that  Mac- 
kenzie's vein  was  rather  more  imitative  than  original,  and  he  has 
inserted  in  his  different  works  studies  from  other  writers  (notably 


504  ENGLISH  PROSE 


one  from  Johnson  in  T/ie  Man  of  Feeling)  which,  while  they 
betray  a  singular  knack  at  an  art  often  cultivated  with  success  in 
youth,  do  not  rise  beyond  the  easy  possibilities  of  youthful  clever- 
ness. In  his  periodical  work  he  is  also  prone  to  wander  in  the 
same  direction,  and  the  once  famous  story  of  La  Roche,  over 
which  the  "  sensibility "  of  a  hundred  years  ago  palpitated  and 
wept,  together  with  the  moving  tale  of  Sir  Edward  and  Louisa,  their 
errors  and  their  repentance,  might  be  not  quite  unfairly  dismissed 
to-day  as  Sterne-and-water.  His  third  work  of  some  size,  T/ie 
Man  of  the  World,  displays  attention  to  the  same  models,  and 
is  on  the  whole  the  least  successful  of  the  three.  For  here  Sterne, 
Rousseau,  Richardson,  Fielding,  and  Smollett  all  by  turns  receive 
Mackenzie's  imitative  homage.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Mirror 
and  the  Lounger  owe  a  constant  royalty  to  Addison  and  the  other 
earlier  essayists.  Thus  it  may  seem  that  we  have  in  Mackenzie 
something  which  may,  with  little  if  any  loss,  be  neglected — a  mere 
reflection  and  moonshine  from  a  great  many  stronger  and  earlier 
lights. 

This,  however,  would  be  an  unfair  decision,  even  if  the  case 
were  restricted  within  the  limits  indicated.  Mackenzie,  even  as 
an  imitator,  is  no  ordinary  copyist.  He  frequently  produces  work 
indistinguishable  from  all  but  the  very  best  work  of  his  originals  ; 
and  he  is  not  an  imitator  only.  In  the  first  place  we  may  see  in 
him  what  maybe  called  the  criticism  of  "sensibility"  existing 
side  by  side  with  the  practice  of  it ;  he  foreshadows  the  reaction 
at  the  same  time  that  he  illustrates  the  disease.  In  the  second 
place  he  showed,  even  during  his  novel-writing  period,  but  much 
more  during  the  maturity  of  his  talent,  when  he  contributed  to  the 
Mirror  and  Lounger,  a  very  considerable  faculty  of  direct  oliser- 
vation  of  manners  and  of  life,  freed  from  literary  convention  of 
the  sentimental  kind  which  elsewhere  rules  in  him.  It  must 
always  be  counted  to  him  for  righteousness  that  at  the  very  outset 
of  the  career  of  Burns  he  saw  and  acknowledged  the  poet's  talent 
with  a  minimum  of  patronage,  and  with  a  very  fair  quantum  of 
insight.  Through  the  stock  characters  of  the  old  Spectator  type, 
with  which  his  periodicals  are  cumbered,  there  break  constant 
anticipations  of  that  directer  study  of  the  actual  which  was  to 
create  the  great  school  of  the  British  novel  from  Scott  to 
Thackeray. 

To  conclude,  he  writes  remarkably  well  ;  and  in  point  of  this 
writing    the    intrinsic    and    the   historic    estimate    may    agree    in 


HENR  V  MA  CKENZIE  505 


according  to  him  a  very  considerable  value.  In  No.  83  of  the 
Mirror  there  is  an  exceedingly  acute  discussion  (written  not  by 
Mackenzie  but  by  his  colleague  Craig,  afterwards  a  judge)  as  to 
the  absence  of  humorous  writers  and  writers  of  the  lighter  kind 
generally  in  Scotland.  The  northern  kingdom  had  more  than 
made  good  its  place  with  Hume  and  Robertson  in  serious  English 
literature,  but  for  more  than  a  century — indeed  since  Drummond 
and  the  other  poets  of  the  earlier  Stuart  period  in  the  joint  king- 
dom Anglicised  themselves — it  had  had  no  one — or  only  Allan 
Ramsay — to  boast  of  in  the  lighter  walks.  Craig  gives  some  very 
just  e.xcuses  for  this  without  denying  the  fact,  and  expresses  hopes 
that  things  would  change  and  were  changing.  His  hopes  were 
justified,  and  his  friend  and  co-partner  in  the  Mirror  was  both 
active  and  effectual  in  justifying  them.  Mackenzie's  direct  influ- 
ence on  Scott  was  far  from  small,  and  he  exemplifies  in  its  earliest 
stage  the  movement  which  in  Scott  reached  its  highest  develop- 
ment. Indeed,  though  to  mention  The  Man  of  Feeling  in  the 
same  day  with  the  author  of  Wavcrley  in  point  of  original,  creative, 
and  various  genius  would  be  absurd,  there  were  other  points  in 
which  Mackenzie  was  even  Scott's  superior,  and  the  chief  of  these 
points  was  correctness  without  pedantry  of  prose  writing.  There 
is  hardly  a  better  example  of  the  later  eighteenth-century  English 
in  its  lighter  forms  and  applications  than  Mackenzie's,  and  if  his 
wit  and  his  pathos,  his  sense  and  his  observation,  had  been  all 
much  smaller  than  they  actually  are  he  would  still  remain  a 
capital  example  of  this  period  of  English  style,  deriving  an  addi- 
tional interest,  but  not  in  the  least  requiring  allowance  or  support 
from  the  fact  that,  as  the  paper  above  referred  to  says,  he  was 
himself  of  a  generation  of  Scotsmen  who  still  "  wrote  in  trammels," 
who  habitually  spoke  in  one  language,  and  had  to  write  in  another. 


George  Saintsbury. 


OLD   EDWARDS  AND  THE   PRESS  GANG 

My  son  was  a  remarkably  good  shooter  ;  he  had  always  kept  a 
pointer  in  our  former  farm,  and  thought  no  harm  in  doing  so 
now  ;  when  one  day,  having  sprung  a  covey  in  our  own  ground, 
the  dog,  of  his  own  accord,  followed  them  into  the  justice's.  My 
son  laid  down  his  gun,  and  went  after  his  dog  to  bring  him  back  ; 
the  gamekeeper  who  had  marked  the  birds,  came  up,  and  seeing 
the  pointer,  shot  him  just  as  my  son  approached.  The  creature 
fell ;  my  son  ran  up  to  him  ;  he  died  with  a  complaining  sort  of 
cry  at  his  master's  feet.  Jack  could  bear  it  no  longer  ;  but  flying 
at  the  gamekeeper  wrenched  his  gun  out  of  his  hand,  and  with 
the  butt  end  of  it  felled  him  to  the  ground. 

He  had  scarce  got  home,  when  a  constable  came  with  a 
warrant,  and  dragged  him  to  prison  ;  there  he  lay,  for  the  justices 
would  not  take  bail,  till  he  was  tried  at  the  quarter-sessions  for 
the  assault  and  battery.  His  fine  was  hard  upon  us  to  pay ;  we 
contrived  however  to  live  the  worse  for  it,  and  make  up  the  loss 
by  our  frugality  ;  but  the  justice  was  not  content  with  that  punish- 
ment, and  soon  after  had  an  opportunity  of  punishing  us  indeed. 

An  officer  with  press  orders  came  down  to  our  country,  and 
having  met  with  the  justices,  agreed  that  they  should  pitch  on  a 
certain  number,  who  could  most  easily  be  spared  from  the  county, 
of  whom  he  would  take  care  to  clear  it ;  my  son's  name  was  in 
the  justice's  list. 

'Twas  on  a  Christmas  eve,  and  the  birthday,  too,  of  my  son's 
little  boy.  The  night  was  piercing  cold,  and  it  blew  a  storm, 
with  showers  of  sleet  and  snow.  We  had  made  up  a  cheering 
fire  in  an  inner  room  ;  I  sat  before  it  in  my  wicker  chair,  blessing 
providence  that  had  still  left  a  shelter  for  me  and  my  children. 
My  son's  two  little  ones  were  holding  their  gambols  around  us  ; 
my  heart  warmed  at  the  sight  ;  I  brought  a  bottle  of  my  best  ale, 
and  all  our  misfortunes  were  forijotten. 


HENR  Y  MA  CKENZIE  507 


It  had  long  been  our  custom  to  play  a  game  at  blind-man's- 
buff  on  that  night,  and  it  was  not  omitted  now  ;  so  to  it  we  fell, 
I  and  my  son,  and  his  wife,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring 
farmer,  who  happened  to  be  with  us  at  the  time,  the  two  children 
and  an  old  maid-servant,  who  had  lived  with  me  from  a  child. 
The  lot  fell  on  my  son  to  be  blindfolded ;  we  had  continued  some 
time  in  our  game,  when  he  groped  his  way  Into  an  outer  room  in 
pursuit  of  some  of  us,  who,  he  imagined,  had  taken  shelter  there  ; 
we  kept  snug  in  our  places,  and  enjoyed  his  mistake.  He  had 
not  been  long  there,  when  he  was  suddenly  seized  from  behind  ; 
"  I  shall  have  you  now,"  said  he,  and  turned  about.  "  Shall  you 
so,  master,"  answered  the  ruffian  who  had  laid  hold  of  him  ;  "  we 
shall  make  you  play  at  another  sort  of  game  by  and  by."  At 
these  words  Harley  started  up  with  a  convulsive  sort  of  motion, 
and  grasping  Edwards'  sword,  drew  it  half  out  of  the  scabbard, 
with  a  look  of  the  most  frantic  wildness.  Edwards  gently  re- 
placed it  in  its  sheath,  and  went  on  with  his  relation. 

On  hearing  these  words  in  a  strange  voice  we  all  rushed  out 
to  discover  the  cause  ;  the  room  by  this  time  was  almost  full  of 
the  gang.  My  daughter-in-law  fainted  at  the  sight  ;  the  maid 
and  I  ran  to  assist  her,  while  my  poor  son  remained  motionless, 
gazing  by  turns  on  his  children  and  their  mother.  We  soon 
recovered  her  to  life,  and  begged  her  to  retire  and  wait  the  issue 
of  the  affair ;  but  she  flew  to  her  husband,  and  clung  round  him 
in  an  agony  of  terror  and  grief. 

In  the  gang  was  one  of  a  sinister  aspect,  whom,  by  his  dress 
we  discovered  to  be  a  sergeant  of  foot ;  he  came  up  to  nie,  and 
told  me  that  my  son  had  his  choice  of  the  sea  or  land  service, 
whispering  at  the  same  time,  that  if  he  chose  the  land,  he  might 
get  off  on  procuring  him  another  man,  and  paying  a  certain  sum 
for  his  freedom.  The  money  we  could  just  muster  up  in  the 
house,  by  the  assistance  of  the  maid,  who  produced,  in  a  green 
bag,  all  the  little  savings  of  her  service  ;  but  the  man  we  could 
not  expect  to  find.  My  daughter-in-law  gazed  upon  her  children 
with  a  look  of  the  wildest  despair.  "  My  poor  infants  !  "  said 
she,  "  your  father  is  forced  from  you  ;  who  shall  now  labour  for 
your  bread  ?  or  must  your  mother  beg  for  herself  and  you  ? "  I 
prayed  her  to  be  patient ;  but  comfort  I  had  none  to  give  her. 
At  last,  calling  the  sergeant  aside,  I  asked  him  if  I  was  too  old 
to  be  accepted  in  place  of  my  son  1  "  Why,  I  don't  know,"  said 
he,  "  you  are  rather  old  to  be  sure,  but  yet  the  money  may  do 


5o8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


much."  I  put  the  money  in  his  hand  ;  and  coming  back  to  my 
chilcU^en,  "Jack,"  said  I,  "you  are  free;  hve  to  give  your  wife 
and  these  httle  ones  bread  ;  I  have  but  httle  life  to  lose,  and  if  I 
stayed,  I  should  add  one  to  the  wretches  you  left  behind ! " 
"  No,"  replied  my  son,  "  I  am  not  that  coward  you  imagine  me  ; 
Heaven  forliid  that  my  father's  gray  hair  should  be  so  exposed, 
while  I  sat  idle  at  home  ;  I  am  young,  and  able  to  endure  much, 
and  God  will  take  care  of  you  and  my  family."  "Jack,"  said  I, 
"  I  will  put  an  end  to  this  matter  ;  you  have  never  hitherto  dis- 
obeyed me  ;  I  will  not  be  contradicted  in  this  ;  stay  at  home,  I 
charge  you,  and,  for  my  sake,  be  kind  to  my  children. 

Our  parting,  Mr.  Harley,  I  cannot  describe  to  you  ;  it  was 
the  first  time  we  ever  had  parted  ;  the  very  press-gang  could 
scarce  keep  from  tears  ;  but  the  sergeant  who  had  seemed  the 
softest  before,  was  now  the  least  moved  of  them  all.  He  con- 
ducted me  to  a  party  of  new-raised  recruits,  who  lay  at  a  village 
in  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  we  soon  after  joined  the  regiment. 
I  had  not  been  long  with  it,  when  we  were  ordered  to  the  East 
Indies,  where  I  was  soon  made  a  sergeant,  and  might  have  picked 
up  some  money,  if  my  heart  had  been  as  hard  as  some  others 
were  ;  Init  my  nature  was  never  of  that  kind,  that  could  think  of 
getting  rich  at  the  expense  of  my  conscience. 

(From  T]ic  Man  of  Feeling.') 


MISS   HOMESPUN  AND   MY   LADY 

The  season  at  last  arrived  in  which  I  was  told  the  town  would 
appear  in  its  gaiety,  a  great  deal  of  good  company  being  expected 
at  the  races.      For  the  races  I   looked  with  anxiety,  for  another 

reason,  my  dear  Lady was  to  be  here  at  that  period.      Of  this 

I  was  informed  by  a  letter  from  my  sister.  From  her  ladyship 
I  had  not  heard  for  a  considerable  time,  as  she  had  been  engaged 
in  a  round  of  visits  to  her  acquaintance  in  the  country. 

The  very  morning  after  her  arrival  (for  I  was  on  the  watch 
to  get  intelligence  of  her)  I  called  at  her  lodgings.  When  the 
servant  appeared,  he  seemed  doubtful  about  letting  me  in  ;  at 
last  he  ushered  me  into  a  little  darkish  parlour,  where,  after 
waiting  about  half  an  hour,  he  brought  me  word  that  his  lady 
could    not    tiy   on    the    gown    I    had    brought    then,    Init    desired 


HENR  Y  MA  CKENZIE  509 

me  to  fetch  it  next  day  at  eleven.  I  now  perceived  there  had 
been  a  mistake  as  to  my  person  ;  and  telHng  the  fellow,  some- 
what angrily,  that  I  was  no  mantua-maker,  desired  him  to  carry 
to  his  lady  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  I  wrote  with  a  pencil  the 
well-known  name  of  Leonora.  On  his  going  up  stairs,  I  heard  a 
loud  peal  of  laughter  aljove,  and   soon  after  he  returned   with  a 

message,  that  Lady was  sorry  she  was  particularly  engaged  at 

present,  and  could  not  possibly  see  me.  Think,  sir,  with  what 
astonishment  I  heard  this  message  from  Hortensia.  I  left  the 
house,  I  know  not  whether  most  ashamed  or  angry  ;  but  after- 
wards I  began  to  persuade  myself  that  there  might  be  some  par- 
ticular reasons  for  Lady  ■ 's  not  seeing  me  at  that  time,  which 

she  might  explain  at  meeting  ;  and  I  imputed  the  temis  of  the 
message  to  the  rudeness  or  simplicity  of  the  footman.  All  that 
day  and  the  next,  I  waited  impatiently  for  some  note  of  explana- 
tion or  inquiry  from  her  ladyship,  and  was  a  good  deal  disap- 
pointed when  I  found  the  second  evening  arrive,  without  having 
received  any  such  token  of  her  remembrance.  I  went  in  rather 
low  spirits  to  the  play.      I  had  not  been  long  in  the  house,  when 

I  saw  Lady enter  the  next  box.      My  heart  fluttered  at  the 

sight  ;  and  1  watched  her  eyes,  that  I  might  take  the  first 
opportunity  of  presenting  myself  to  her  notice.  I  saw  them 
soon  after,  turned  towards  me,  and  immediately  curtsied  with 
a  significant  smile  to  my  noble  friend,  who  being  short- 
sighted, it  would  seem  (which  however,  I  had  never  remarked 
before),  stared  at  me  for  some  moments,  without  taking  notice  of 
my  salute,  and  at  last  was  just  putting  up  a  glass  to  her  eye,  to 
point  it  at  me,  when  a  lady  pulled  her  by  the  sleeve,  and  made 
her  take  notice  of  somebody  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house. 
She  never  afterwards  happened  to  look  to  that  ciuarter  where  I 
was  seated. 

Still,  however,  I  was  not  quite  discouraged,  and,  on  an  accidental 
change  of  places  in  our  box,  contrived  to  place  myself  at  the  end 
of  the  bench  next  her  ladyship's,  where  there  was  only  a  piece 
of  thin  board  between  us.  At  the  end  of  the  act,  I  ventured  to 
ask  her  how  she  did,  and  to  express  my  happiness  at  seeing  her 
in  town,  adding  that  I  had  called  the  day  before,  but  found  her 
particularly  engaged.  Why  yes,  said  she,  Miss  Homespun,  I  am 
always  extremely  hurried  in  town,  and  have  time  only  to  receive 
a  very  few  visits  ;  but  I  will  be  glad  if  you  will  come  some 
morning  and  breakfast  with  me,  but  not  to-morrow,  for  there  is  a 


5 1 o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


morning  concert  ;  nor  next  day,  for  I  have  a  musical  party  at 
home.  In  short,  you  may  come  some  morning  next  week,  when 
the  hurry  will  be  over,  and  if  I  am  not  gone  out  of  town,  I  will 
be  happy  to  see  you.  I  don't  know  what  answer  I  should  have 
made  ;  but  she  did  not  give  me  an  opportunity  ;  for  a  gentleman 
in  a  green  uniform  coming  into  the  box,  she  immediately  made 
room  for  him  to  sit  between  us.  He,  after  a  broad  stare  full  in 
my  face,  turned  his  back  my  way,  and  sat  in  that  posture  all  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 

I  am  not  so  silly,  Mr.  Mirror,  but  I  can  understand  the 
meaning  of  all  this.  My  lady,  it  seems,  is  contented  to  have 
some  humble  friends  in  the  country,  whom  she  does  not  think 
worthy  of  her  notice  in  town  ;  but  I  am  determined  to  show  her 
that  I  have  a  prouder  spirit  than  she  imagines,  and  shall  not  go 
near  her  either  in  town  or  country.  What  is  more,  my  father 
shan't  vote  for  her  friend  at  next  election  if  I  can  help  it. 

What  vexes  me  beyond  everything  else  is,  that  I  had  been 
often  telling  my  aunt  and  her  daughters  of  the  intimate  footing  I 

was  on  with  Lady  ,  and  what  a  violent  friendship  we  had  for 

each  other  ;  and  so,  from  envy  perhaps,  they  used  to  nick-name 
me  the  Countess,  and  Lady  Leonora.  Now  that  they  have  got 
the  story  of  the  mantua-maker  and  the  play-house  (for  I  was  so 
angry  I  could  not  conceal  it),  I  am  ashamed  to  hear  the  name  of 
a  lady  of  quality  mentioned,  even  if  it  be  only  in  a  book  from  the 
circulating  library.  Do  write  a  paper,  sir,  against  pride  and 
haughtiness,  and  people  forgetting  their  country  friends  and 
acquaintance,  and  you  will  very  much  oblige,  yours,  etc., 

Elizabeth  Homespun. 

P.S. — My  uncle's  partner,  the  young  gentleman  I  mentioned 
above,  takes  my  part  when  my  cousins  joke  about  intimates  with 
great  folks  ;  I  think  he  is  a  much  genteeler  and  better  bred  man 
than  I  took  him  for  at  first. 

(From  The  iMirror.) 


MACKENZIE   ON   BURNS 

Thf:  power  of  genius  is  not  less  admirable  in  tracing  the  manners, 
than  in  painting  the  passions,  or  in  drawing  the  scenery  of  nature. 


HENR  V  MA  CKENZIE  5 1 1 

That  intuitive  glance  with  which  a  writer  Hke  Shakespeare  dis- 
cerns the  characters  of  men,  with  which  he  catches  the  many 
changing  hues  of  hfe,  fomis  a  sort  of  problem  in  the  science  of 
mind,  of  which  it  is  easier  to  see  the  truth  than  assign  the  cause. 
Though  I  am  very  far  from  meaning  to  compare  our  rustic  bard 
to  Shakespeare,  yet  whoever  will  read  his  lighter  and  more 
humorous   poems,  his   Dialogue  of  the  Dogs  ;    his  Dedication   to 

G H-^ ,  Esq.  ;  his  Epistles  to  a  young  Friend,  and  to  W. 

S n,    will   perceive    with    what    uncommon    penetration    and 

sagacity  this  heaven-taught  ploughman,  from  his  humble  and  un- 
lettered station,  has  looked  upon  men  and  manners. 

Against  some  passages  of  these  last  mentioned  poems  it  has 
been  objected  that  they  breathe  a  spirit  of  libertinism  and  irre- 
ligion.  But  if  we  consider  the  ignorance  and  fanaticism  of  the 
lower  class  of  people  in  the  country  where  these  poems  were 
written,  a  fanaticism  of  that  pernicious  sort  which  sets  faith  in 
opposition  to  good  works,  the  fallacy  and  danger  of  which  a  mind 
so  enlightened  as  our  poet's  would  not  but  perceive  ;  we  shall 
not  look  upon  his  lighter  muse  as  the  enemy  of  religion  (of  which 
in  several  places  he  expresses  the  justest  sentiments),  though  she 
has  sometimes  been  a  little  unguarded  in  her  ridicule  of  hypocrisy. 

In  this,  as  in  other  respects,  it  must  be  allowed  that  there  are 
exceptionable  parts  of  the  volume  he  has  given  to  the  public, 
which  caution  would  have  suppressed,  or  correction  struck  out  ; 
but  poets  are  seldom  cautious,  and  our  poet  had,  alas  !  no  friends 
or  companions  from  whom  correction  could  be  obtained.  When 
we  reflect  on  his  rank  in  life,  the  habits  to  which  he  must  have 
been  subject,  and  the  society  in  which  he  must  have  mixed,  we 
regret  perhaps  more  than  wonder,  that  delicacy  should  be  so 
often  offended  in  perusing  a  volume  in  which  there  is  so  much  to 
interest  and  to  please  us. 

Burns  possesses  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  fancy  of  a  poet. 
That  honest  pride  and  independence  of  soul,  which  are  some- 
times the  muse's  only  dower,  break  forth  on  every  occasion  in 
his  works.  It  may  be,  then,  I  shall  wrong  his  feelings,  while  I 
indulge  my  own,  in  calling  the  attention  of  the  public  to  his 
situation  and  circumstances.  That  condition,  humble  as  it  was, 
in  which  he  found  content,  and  woed  the  muse,  might  not  have 
been  deemed  uncomfortable  ;  but  grief  and  misfortune  have 
reached  him  there  ;  and  one  or  two  of  his  poems  hint,  what  I 
have    learnt    from    some    of   his    countrymen,    that   he   has   been 


512  ENGLISH  PROSE 


obliged  to  form  the  resolution  of  leaving  his  native  land,  to  seek 
under  a  West  Indian  clime  that  shelter  and  support  which 
Scotland  has  denied  him.  But  I  trust  means  may  be  found  to 
prevent  this  resolution  from  taking  place  ;  and  that  I  do  my 
country  no  more  than  justice,  when  I  suppose  her  ready  to  stretch 
out  her  hand  to  cherish  and  retain  this  native  poet,  whose  wood- 
notes  wild  possess  so  much  excellence.  To  repair  the  wrongs  of 
suffering  or  neglected  merit  ;  to  call  forth  genius  from  the  obscurity 
in  which  it  had  pined  indignant,  and  place  it  where  it  may 
profit  or  delight  the  world.  These  are  exertions  which  give  to 
wealth  an  enviable  superiority,  to  greatness  and  to  patronage  a 
laudable  pride.  {Jxom  The  Lounger.) 


HANNAH    MORE 


[Hannah  More,  the  daughter  of  a  village  schoolmaster,  was  born  at 
Stapylton  in  1745.  She  learnt  Latin  and  a  little  mathematics  from  her  father, 
French  from  her  sisters,  and  Spanish  and  Italian  at  a  later  stage.  In 
1772  she  made  the  first  of  the  annual  visits  to  London  which  were  continued 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  her  long  and  busy  life.  Here,  among  those 
who  had  the  best  right  to  be  critical,  she  seems  to  have  been  a  favourite 
from  the  first.  After  some  epigrams,  compliments,  and  ballads,  she  wrote  a 
few  tragedies.  The  Sacred  Dramas  appeared  soon  after  these,  and  in  1786 
Florio  and  Bas  Bleu. 

Two  years  later  she  began  to  work  vigorously  for  the  abolition  of  slavery,  and 
was  thus  brought  into  contact  with  a  certain  religious  set  of  persons  who  may 
be  considered  as  the  earliest  of  the  Evangelical  school,  and  under  this  influence 
she  published  :  Thoughts  on  the  Manners  of  the  Great,  1788  ;  An  Estiinate  of 
the  Religion  of  the  Fashionable  IVorld,  1790  ;  Strictures  on  Female  Educa- 
tion, 1799  ;   and  Ca-lebs  in  search  of  a   Wife,  1809. 

She  published  Remarks  on  Mr.  Dupont's  Speech,  1794  ;  the  Cheap  Re- 
pository Tracts,  1795-1798  ;  and  Hints  toivards  forming  the  Character  of  a 
Princess,  1805,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Princess  Charlotte.  Practical  Piety 
followed  in  1811  ;  Christian  Morals,  1813  ;  Essay  on  the  Character  and 
Writings  of  St.  Paul,  1815  ;  patriotic  songs  and  leaflets,  1817  ;  Moral 
Sketches,  1819  ;  The  Spirit  of  Prayer,  1825.  She  spent  the  last  five  years 
of  her  life  at  Clifton,  where  she  died  in  1833,  aged  eighty-eight.] 

The  dream  of  Hannah  More's  childhood  was  to  go  to  London 
and  see  the  bishops  and  the  booksellers  ;  her  earliest  ambition  to 
possess  a  quire  of  paper  which  she  might  fill  with  letters  of 
exhortation  to  sinners  and  their  repentant  answers.  She  regretted 
the  absence  of  practical  precepts  in  the  Waverley  novels,  and 
stands  herself  convicted  of  some  moral  intention  in  almost  every 
one  of  even  her  most  trifling  and  artificial  productions.  She  never 
became  a  slave  to  the  brilliant  society  that  flattered  and  caressed 
her,  while  its  vagaries  moved  her  to  righteous  indignation.  The 
missionary  spirit  was  strong  in  her,  and  she  did  not  possess 
the  artistic  sense  which  had  enabled  Fanny  Burney  to  look  on 
these  things  as  an  irresponsible  outsider  and  turn  them  to  comedy. 
The  chief  aim,  indeed,  of  her  literary  activity,  after  her  apprentice- 
VOL.   IV  2  L 


514 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


ship  with  the  Bas  Blcus,  was  to  expose  the  fashionable  vices  and 
minor  everyday  irregularities  of  her  generation. 

She  addressed  herself  primarily  "  to  those  persons  of  rank  and 
fortune  who  live  within  the  restraints  of  moral  obligation,  who 
acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion,"  and  demanded 
from  them  a  practice  consistent  with  the  creed  to  which  they  out- 
wardly subscribed.  The  combined  rigour  and  spirituality  of  her 
teaching  offended  both  the  Calvinists  and  their  opponents,  though 
she  desired  to  attack  neither,  and  simply  accepted  the  guidance 
of  the  Church  in  all  matters  of  dogma. 

The  same  didactic  aim  underlies  Ca'Iebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife, 
where  the  novel  form  served  merely  to  attract  such  readers  as 
might  be  frightened  away  from  an  essay  or  disquisition.  The 
plot  is  of  the  slightest  and  clumsily  constructed,  the  principal 
characters  are  unreal  and  painfully  priggish,  but  some  of  the 
"warnings"  are  drawn  with  considerable  spirit.  In  the  Cheap 
Repository  Series,  she  wrote  expressly  "for  the  common  people," 
to  counteract  the  influence  of  Tom  Paine  and  the  French  Revolu- 
tion ;  teaching  industry,  sobriety,  content,  loyalty  to  duly  constituted 
authorities,  and  the  practice  of  religion.  The  arguments  used 
were  somewhat  crude,  and  the  average  British  squire  was  perhaps 
a  little  idealised  ;  but  she  was  really  intimate  with  the  needs  of 
the  poor,  and  made  these  publications  the  instruments  of  much 
excellent  practical  advice. 

Hannah  More's  style  is  almost  always  conventional,  and  gener- 
ally careless,  but  The  Cheap  Repository  Tracts  are  simple,  forcible, 
and  dramatic  ;  and  her  faults  of  manner  never  entirely  obscure 
her  natural  vigour  and  good  sense.  She  is  animated  and  fluent, 
possessing  an  extensive,  though  not  a  pure  vocabulary,  and  some 
turn  for  epigram.  Her  heaviest  works  are  sprinkled  with 
admirable  phrases,  reflections,  and  descriptions,  as  happy  as 
those  which  make  many  of  her  letters  so  delightful.  She  was  a 
thoroughly  cultivated  and  charming  woman,  who  could  hold  her 
own  in  the  best  society  of  her  day,  at  once  observant,  sympathetic, 
and  tactful,  with  a  capacity  for  unfailing  enthusiasm. 

Her  books,  now  little  read,  were  once  immensely  popular. 
They  were  more  harmless  than  most  fiction,  less  dry  than  most 
theology,  and  attracted  notice  in  her  lifetime  as  the  work  of  a 
woman  of  great  personal  attractions,  fearless  principle,  and 
indomitable  energy. 

Recunald  Brimlev  Johnson. 


PROFESSION   AND   PRACTICE 

I  SHALL  conclude  these  loose  and  immethodical  hints  with  a 
plain  though  short  address  to  those  who  content  themselves  with 
a  decent  profession  of  the  doctrines  and  a  formal  attendance  on 
the  offices,  instead  of  a  diligent  discharge  of  the  duties,  of  Christi- 
anity. Believe  and  forgive  me  ! — You  are  the  people  who  lower 
religion  in  the  eyes  of  its  enemies.  The  openly  profane,  the 
avowed  enemies  to  God  and  goodness,  serve  to  confirm  the 
truths  they  mean  to  oppose,  to  illustrate  the  doctrines  they  deny, 
and  to  accomplish  the  very  predictions  they  affect  to  disbelieve. 
But  you,  like  an  inadequate  and  faithless  prop,  overturn  the 
edifice  which  you  pretend  to  support.  When  an  acute  and  keen- 
eyed  infidel  measures  your  lives  with  the  rule  by  which  you 
profess  to  walk,  he  finds  so  little  analogy  between  them,  the  copy 
is  so  unlike  the  pattern,  that  this  inconsistency  of  yours  is  the 
pass  through  which  his  most  dangerous  attack  is  made.  And  I 
must  confess,  that,  of  all  the  arguments,  which  the  malignant 
industry  of  infidelity  has  been  able  to  muster,  the  negligent 
conduct  of  professing  Christians  seems  to  me  to  be  the  only  one 
which  is  really  capable  of  staggering  a  man  of  sense.  He  hears 
of  a  spiritual  and  self-denying  religion  ;  he  reads  the  beatitudes  ; 
he  observes  that  the  grand  artillery  of  the  Gospel  is  planted 
against  pride  and  sensuality.  He  then  turns  to  the  transcript  of 
this  perfect  original  ;  to  the  lives  which  pretend  to  be  fashioned 
by  it.  There  he  sees,  with  triumphant  derision,  that  pride,  self- 
love,  luxury,  self-sufficiency,  unbounded  personal  expense,  and  an 
inordinate  appetite  for  pleasure,  are  reputable  vices  in  the  eyes  of 
many  of  those  who  acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  Christian 
doctrines.  He  weighs  that  meekness,  to  which  a  blessmg  is 
promised,  with  that  arrogance  which  is  too  common  to  be  very 
dishonourable.  He  compares  that  non-conformity  to  the  world, 
which  the   IJiljlc  makes  the  criterion  of  a  believer,  with  that  rage 


5i6  ENGLISH  PROSE 

for  amusement  which  is  not  considered  as  disreputable  in  a 
Christian.  He  opposes  the  self-denying  and  lowly  character  of 
the  Author  of  our  faith  with  the  sensual  practices  of  his  followers. 
He  finds  little  resemblance  between  the  restraints  prescribed  and 
the  gratifications  indulged  in.  What  conclusions  must  a  specula- 
tive reasoning  sceptic  draw  from  such  premises?  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  such  phrases  as  a  "  broken  spirit,"  a  "  contrite  heart," 
"poverty  of  spirit,"  "refraining  the  soul,"  "keeping  it  low,"  and 
"  casting  down  high  imaginations,"  should  be  to  the  unbeliever 
"foolishness,"  when  such  humiliating  doctrines  are  a  '^stumbling 
block  "  to  professing  Christians  ;  to  Christians  who  cannot  cordi- 
ally relish  a  religion  which  professedly  tells  them  it  was  sent 
to  stain  the  pride  of  human  glory,  and  "  to  exclude  boasting  ?  " 

But  though  the  passive  and  self-denying  virtues  are  not  high 
in  the  esteem  of  mere  good  sort  of  people,  yet  they  are  peculiarly 
the  evangelical  virtues.  The  world  extols  brilliant  actions  ;  the 
Gospel  enjoins  good  habits  and  right  motives  ;  it  seldom  incul- 
cates those  splendid  deeds  which  make  heroes,  or  teaches  those 
lofty  sentiments  which  constitute  philosophers  ;  but  it  enjoins  the 
harder  task  of  renouncing  self,  of  living  uncorrupted  in  the  world, 
of  subduing  besetting  sins,  and  of  "not  thinking  of  ourselves 
more  highly  than  we  ought."  The  acquisition  of  glory  was  the 
precept  of  other  religions,  the  contempt  of  it  is  the  perfection  of 
Christianity. 

Let  us,  then,  be  consistent,  and  wc  shall  never  be  contemptible, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  our  enemies.  Let  not  the  unbeliever  say 
that  we  have  one  set  of  opinions  for  our  theory,  and  another  for 
our  practice  ;  that  to  the  vulgar — 

We  show  the  rough  and  thorny  way  to  heav'n, 
While  we  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  tread. 

Would  it  not  become  the  character  of  a  man  of  sense,  of 
which  consistency  is  a  most  unequivocal  proof,  to  choose  some 
rule  and  abide  by  it  ?  An  extempore  Christian  is  a  ridiculous 
character.  Fixed  principles,  if  they  be  really  principles  of  the 
heart,  and  not  merely  opinions  of  the  understanding,  will  be 
followed  by  a  consistent  course  of  action  ;  while  indecision  of 
spirit  will  produce  instability  of  conduct.  If  there  be  a  model 
which  we  profess  to  admire,  let  us  square  our  lives  by  it.  If 
either  the  Koran  of  Mahomet,  or  the  Revelations  of  Zoroaster, 
be  a  perfect  guide,  let  us  follow  one  of  them.      If  either  Epicurus, 


HANNAH  MORE  517 


Zeno,  or  Confucius,  be  the  peculiar  object  of  our  veneration  and 
respect,  let  us  avowedly  fashion  our  conduct  by  the  dictates  of 
their  philosophy  ;  and  then,  though  we  may  be  wrong,  we  shall 
not  be  absurd  ;  we  may  be  erroneous,  but  we  shall  not  be  incon- 
sistent :  but  if  the  Bible  be  in  truth  the  Word  of  God,  as  we 
profess  to  believe,  we  need  look  no  further  for  a  consummate 
pattern.  "  If  the  Lord  be  God,  let  us  follow  Him  "  :  if  Christ  be 
a   sacrifice   for   sin,   let    Him   be    also   to  us  the  example  of  an 


holy  life. 


(From  Tlioug/its  on  the  Manners  of  t/ic  Great.) 


A  RELIGIOUS   FAMILY 

At  tea,  I  found  the  young  ladies  took  no  more  interest  in  the 
conversation  than  they  had  done  at  dinner,  but  sat  whispering 
and  laughing,  and  netting  white  silk  gloves  till  they  were  sum- 
moned to  the  harpsichord.  Despairing  of  getting  on  with  them 
in  company,  I  proposed  a  walk  in  the  garden.  I  now  found 
them  as  willing  to  talk,  as  destitute  of  anything  to  say.  Their 
conversation  was  vapid  and  frivolous.  They  laid  great  stress  on 
small  things.  They  seemed  to  have  no  shades  in  their  under- 
standing, but  used  the  strongest  terms  for  the  commonest  occa- 
sions, and  admiration  was  excited  by  things  hardly  worthy  to 
command  attention.  They  were  extremely  glad,  and  extremely' 
sorry,  on  subjects  not  calculated  to  excite  affections  of  any  kind. 
They  were  animated  about  trifles,  and  indifferent  on  things  of 
importance.  They  were,  I  must  confess,  frank  and  good-natured, 
but  it  was  evident,  that  as  they  were  too  open  to  have  anything 
to  conceal,  so  they  were  too  uninformed  to  have  anything  to 
produce  ;  and  I  was  resolved  not  to  risk  my  happiness  with  a 
woman  who  could  not  contribute  her  full  share  towards  spending 
a  wet  winter  cheerfully  in  the  country. 

In  the  evening  Mrs.  Ranby  was  lamenting,  in  general  and 
rather  customary  terms,  her  own  exceeding  sinfulness.  Mr. 
Ranby  said,  "You  accuse  yourself  rather  too  heavily,  my  dear; 
you  have  sins  to  be  sure." — "  And  pray  what  sins  have  I,  Mr. 
Ranby  ? "  said  she,  turning  upon  him  with  so  much  cjuickness 
that  the  poor  man  started.      "  Nay,"  said  he,  meekly,  "  I  did  not 


5i8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


mean  to  offend  you  ;  so  far  from  it,  that  hearing  you  condemn 
yourself  so  grievously,  I  intended  to  comfort  you,  and  to  say  that, 

except  a  few  faults " — "And  pray  what  faults?"  interrupted 

she,  continuing  to  speak  however,  lest  he  should  catch  an  interval 
to  tell  them.  "  1  defy  you,  Mr.  Ranby,  to  produce  one." — "  My 
dear,"  replied  he,  "  as  you  charged  yourself  with  all,  I  thought  it 
would  be  letting  you  off  cheaply  by  naming  only  two  or  three, 
such  as "  Here,  fearing  matters  would  go  too  far,  I  inter- 
posed, and  softening  things  as  much  as  I  could  for  the  lady,  said, 
"  I  conceived  that  Mr.  Ranby  meant,  that  though  she  partook  of 

the  general  corruption "      Here  Ranby  interrupting  me,  with 

more  spirit  than  I  thought  he  possessed,  said,  "  General  corrup- 
tion, sir,  must  be  the  source  of  particular  corruption.  I  did  not 
mean  that  my  wife  was  worse  than  other  women." — "Worse,  Mr. 
Ranby,  worse  ? "  cried  she.  Ranby,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
not  minding  her,  went  on  : — "  As  she  is  always  insisting  that  the 
whole  species  is  corrupt,  she  cannot  help  allowing  that  she  herself 
has  not  quite  escaped  the  infection.  Now,  to  be  a  sinner  in  the 
gross,  and  a  saint  in  the  detail  ;  that  is,  to  have  all  sins,  and  no 
faults — is  a  thing  I  do  not  quite  comprehend." 

After  he  had  left  the  room,  which  he  did  as  the  shortest  way 
of  allaying  the  stomi,  she  apologised  for  him,  saying,  "  he  was  a 
well-meaning  man,  and  acted  up  to  the  little  light  he  had  "  ;  but 
added,  "  that  he  was  unacquainted  with  religious  feelings,  and 
knew  little  of  the  nature  of  conversion." 

Mrs.  Ranby,  I  found,  seems  to  consider  Christianity  as  a  kind 
of  free-masonry,  and  therefore  thinks  it  superfluous  to  speak  on 
serious  subjects  to  any  but  the  initiated.  If  they  do  not  return 
the  sign,  she  gives  them  up  as  blind  and  dead.  She  thinks  she 
can  only  make  herself  intelligible  to  those  to  whom  certain 
peculiar  phrases  are  familiar  ;  and,  though  her  friends  may  be 
correct,  devout,  and  both  doctrinally  and  practically  pious,  yet,  if 
they  cannot  catch  a  certain  mystic  meaning,  if  there  is  not  a 
sympathy  of  intelligence  between  her  and  them,  if  they  do  not 
fully  conceive  of  impressions,  and  cannot  respond  to  mysterious 
communications,  she  holds  them  unworthy  of  intercourse  with  her. 
She  does  not  so  much  insist  on  high  moral  excellence  as  the 
criterion  of  their  worth,  as  on  their  own  account  of  their  internal 
feelings. 

(From  Ccvlchs.) 


HANNAH  MORE  519 


THE   MARRIAGE   MARKET 

After  spending  the  day  at  Mrs.  Fentham's,  I  went  to  sup 
with  my  friends  in  Cavendish  Square.  Lady  Belfield  was 
impatient  for  my  history  of  the  dinner.  But  Sir  John  said, 
laughing,  "  You  shall  not  say  a  word,  Charles — I  can  tell  how 
it  was  as  exactly  as  if  I  had  been  there.  Charlotte  who  had 
the  best  voice,  was  brought  out  to  sing,  but  was  placed  a  little 
behind,  as  her  person  is  not  c[uite  perfect  ;  Maria,  who  is  the 
most  picturesque  figure,  was  put  to  attitudinise  at  the  harp, 
arrayed  in  the  costume,  and  assuming  the  fascinating  graces 
of  Marmion's  Lady  Heron  ; 

"  ?'air  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 
The  strings  her  fingers  flew." 

Then,  Charles,  was  the  moment  of  peril  !  then,  according  to 
your  favourite  Milton's  most  incongruous  image, 

"You  took  in  sounds  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  death." 

"  For  fear,  however,  that  your  heart  of  adamant  should  hold 
out  against  all  these  perilous  assaults,  its  vulnerability  was 
tried  in  other  quarters.  The  Titian  would  naturally  lead  to 
Lavinia's  drawings.  A  beautiful  sketch  of  the  lakes  would  be 
produced,  with  a  gentle  intimation,  what  a  sweet  place  West- 
moreland must  be  to  live  in  !  When  you  had  exhausted  all 
proper  raptures  on  the  art  and  on  the  artist,  it  would  be 
recollected,  that  as  Westmoreland  was  so  near  Scotland,  you 
would  naturally  be  fond  of  a  reel — the  reel,  of  course,  succeeded." 
Then,  putting  himself  into  an  attitude,  and  speaking  theatrically, 
he  continued — ■ 

' '  Then  universal  Pan 
Knit  witli  the  graces  and  the  hours  in  dance. 

Oh  !  no,  I  forget,  universal  Pan  could  not  join — but  he  could 
admire.  Then  all  the  perfections  of  all  the  nymphs  burst  on 
you  in  full  blaze.  Such  a  concentration  of  attractions  you 
never  could  resist  !  You  are  but  a  man,  and  now,  doubtless, 
a  lost  man."  (From  the  Same.) 


520  ENGLISH  PROSE 


A  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHER 

About  this  time  he  got  hold  of  a  famous  Httle  book  written 
by  the  new  philosopher,  Thomas  Paine,  whose  pestilent  doctrines 
have  gone  about  seeking  whom  they  may  destroy.  These 
doctrines  found  a  ready  entrance  into  Mr.  Fantom's  mind  ;  a 
mind  at  once  shallow  and  inc^uisitive,  speculative,  and  vain, 
ambitious  and  dissatisfied.  As  almost  every  book  was  new  to 
him,  he  fell  into  the  common  error  of  those  who  begin  to  read 
late  in  life,  that  of  thinking  what  he  did  not  know  himself,  was 
equally  new  to  others  ;  and  he  was  apt  to  fancy  that  he,  and 
the  author  he  was  reading,  were  the  only  two  people  in  the 
world  who  knew  anything.  This  book  led  to  the  grand 
discovery.  He  had  now  found  what  his  heart  panted  after, 
a  way  to  distinguish  himself  To  start  out  a  full-grown  philosopher 
at  once,  to  be  wise  without  education,  to  dispute  without  learning, 
and  to  make  proselytes  without  argument,  was  a  short  cut  to 
fame,  which  well  suited  his  vanity  and  his  ignorance.  He 
rejoiced  that  he  had  been  so  clever  as  to  examine  for  himself, 
pitied  his  friends  who  took  things  upon  trust,  and  was  resolved 
to  assert  the  freedom  of  his  own  mind.  To  a  man  fond  of 
bold  novelties  and  daring  paradoxes,  solid  argument  would  be 
flat,  and  truth  would  be  dull,  merely  because  it  is  not  new. 
Mr.  Fantom  believed,  not  in  proportion  to  the  strength  of 
the  evidence,  but  to  the  impudence  of  the  assertion.  The 
trampling  on  holy  ground  with  dirty  shoes,  the  smearing  the 
sanctuary  with  filth  and  mire,  the  calling  prophets  and  apostles 
by  the  most  scurrilous  names,  was  new,  and  dashing,  and 
dazzling.  Mr.  Fantom,  now  being  set  free  from  the  chains  of 
slavery  and  superstition,  was  resolved  to  show  his  zeal  in  the 
usual  way,  by  trying  to  free  others.  But  it  would  have  hurt 
his  vanity  had  he  known  that  he  was  the  convert  of  a  man  who 
had  written  only  for  the  vulgar,  who  had  invented  nothing,  no, 
not  even  one  idea  of  original  wickedness  ;  but  who  had  stooped 
to  rake  up  out  of  the  kennel  of  infidelity  all  the  loathsome  dregs 
and  offal  dirt,  which  politer  unbelievers  had  thrown  away,  as 
too  gross  and  offensive  for  their  better-bred  readers. 

Mr.  Fantom,  who  considered  that  a  philosopher  and  politician 
must  set  up  with  a  little  sort  of  stock  in  trade,  now  picked  up 
all   the   commonplace   notions   against    Christianity   and   govern- 


HANNAH  MORE  521 


ment,  which  have  lieen  answered  a  hundred  times  over.  These 
he  kept  by  him  ready  cut  and  dried,  and  brought  out  in  all 
companies  with  a  zeal  which  would  have  done  honour  to  a 
better  cause,  but  which  the  friends  to  a  better  cause  are  not 
so  apt  to  discover.  He  soon  got  all  the  cant  of  the  new  school. 
He  prated  about  narrowness,  and  ignorance,  and  bigotry,  and 
prejudice,  and  priestcraft,  and  tyranny,  on  the  one  hand  ;  and 
on  the  other,  of  public  good,  the  love  of  mankind,  and  liberality, 
and  candour,  and  toleration,  and,  above  all,  benevolence. 
Benevolence,  he  said,  made  up  the  whole  of  religion,  and  all 
the  other  parts  of  it  were  nothing  but  cant,  and  jargon,  and 
hypocrisy.  By  benevolence  he  understood  a  gloomy  and 
indefinite  anxiety  about  the  happiness  of  people  with  whom 
he  was  utterly  disconnected,  and  whom  Providence  had  put 
it  out  of  his  reach  either  to  serve  or  injure.  And  by  the 
happiness  this  benevolence  was  so  anxious  to  promote,  he 
meant  an  exemption  from  the  j^ower  of  the  laws,  and  an 
emancipation  from  the  restraints  of  religion,  conscience,  and 
moral  obligation.  {Yxoiw  History  of  Mr.  Fantom.) 


A  PLAIN    MAN   ON    HIS   DAUGHTER'S   FAVOURITE 
NOVELS 

I  COULD  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it  ;  it  was  neither 
fish,  flesh,  nor  good  red -herring  :  it  was  all  about  my  lord, 
and ,  Sir  Harry,  and  the  Captain.  But  I  never  met  with  such 
nonsensical  fellows  in  my  life.  Their  talk  was  no  more  like 
that  of  my  old  landlord,  who  was  a  lord  you  know,  nor  the 
captain  of  our  fencibles,  than  chalk  is  like  cheese.  I  was  fairly 
taken  in  at  first,  and  began  to  think  I  had  got  hold  of  a  godly 
book  :  for  there'  was  a  deal  about  hope  and  despair,  and  death, 
and  heaven,  and  angels,  and  torments,  and  everlasting  happiness. 
But  when  I  got  a  little  on,  I  found  there  was  no  meaning  in  all 
these  words,  or  if  any,  it  was  a  bad  meaning.  Eternal  misery, 
perhaps,  only  meant  a  moment's  disappointment  about  a  bit  of 
a  letter ;  and  everlasting  happiness  meant  two  people  talking 
nonsense  together  for  five  minutes.  In  short,  I  never  met  with 
such  a   pack   of  lies.     The  people  talk  such  wild  gibberish   as 


522  ENGLISH  PROSE 


no  folks  in  their  sober  senses  ever  did  talk  ;  and  the  things 
that  happen  to  them  are  not  like  the  things  that  ever 
happen  to  me  or  any  of  my  acquaintance.  They  are  at 
home  one  minute,  and  beyond  the  sea  the  next  ;  beggars 
to-day,  and  lords  to-morrow  ;  waiting-maids  in  the  morning,  and 
duchesses  at  night.  Nothing  happens  in  a  natural  gradual 
way,  as  it  does  at  home  ;  they  grow  rich  by  the  stroke  of  a 
wand,  and  poor  by  the  magic  of  a  word  ;  the  disinherited  orphan 
of  this  hour  is  the  overgrown  heir  of  the  next :  now  a  bride 
and  bridegroom  turn  out  to  be  a  brother  and  sister,  and  the 
brother  and  sister  prove  to  be  no  relations  at  all.  You  and  I, 
Master  Worthy,  have  worked  hard  many  years,  and  think  it 
very  well  to  have  scraped  a  trifle  of  money  together ;  you  a 
few  hundreds,  I  suppose,  and  I,  a  few  thousands.  But  one 
would  think  every  man  in  these  books  had  the  bank  of  England 
in  his  escritoire.  Then  there  is  another  thing  which  I  never 
met  with  in  true  life.  We  think  it  pretty  well,  you  know,  if 
one  has  got  one  thing,  and  another  has  got  another :  I  will  tell 
you  how  I  mean.  You  are  reckoned  sensible,  our  parson  is 
learned,  the  squire  is  rich,  I  am  rather  generous,  one  of  your 
daughters  is  pretty,  and  both  mine  are  genteel.  But  in  these 
books  (except  here  and  there  one,  whom  they  make  worse  than 
Satan  himself),  every  man  and  woman's  child  of  them,  are  all 
wise,  and  witty,  and  generous,  and  rich,  and  handsome,  and 
genteel,  and  all  to  the  last  degree.  Nobody  is  middling,  or 
good  in  one  thing  and  bad  in  another,  like  my  live  acquaintance  ; 
but  it  is  all  up  to  the  skies,  or  down  to  the  dirt.  I  had  rather 
read   Tom    Hickathrift,    or    Jack    the    Giant   Killer,    a   thousand 

^"^^2-  (From  The  Two  Wealthy  Farmers.) 


DRESS  AND   LITERATURE 

To  a  Sister.  London,  1775. 

Our  first  visit  was  to  Sir  Joshua's,  where  we  were  received  with 
all  the  friendship  imaginable.  I  am  going  to-day  to  a  great  dinner  ; 
nothing  can  be  conceived  so  absurd,  extravagant,  and  fantastical, 
as  the  present  mode  of  dressing  the  head.  Simplicity  and 
modesty  are  things  so  much  exploded,  that  the  very  names  are 
no  longer  remembered.      1    have  just    escaped    from  one  of  the 


HANNAH  MORE  523 


most  fashionable  disfigurers  ;  and  though  I  charged  him  to  dress 
me  with  the  greatest  simplicity,  and  to  have  only  a  very  distant 
eye  upon  the  fashion,  just  enough  to  avoid  the  pride  of  singularity, 
without  running  into  ridiculous  excess  ;  yet  in  spite  of  all  these 
sage  didactics,  I  absolutely  blush  at  myself,  and  turn  to  the  glass 
with  as  much  caution  as  a  vain  beauty  just  risen  from  the  small- 
pox ;  which  cannot  be  a  more  disfiguring  disease  than  the  present 
mode  of  dressing.  Of  the  one,  the  calamity  may  be  greater  in  its 
consequences,  but  of  the  other  it  is  more  corrupt  in  its  cause. 
We  have  been  reading  a  treatise  on  the  morality  of  Shakespeare  ; 
it  is  a  happy  and  easy  way  of  filling  a  book,  that  the  present  race 
of  authors  have  arrived  at — that  of  criticising  the  works  of  some 
eminent  poet  :  with  monstrous  extracts,  and  short  remarks.  It 
is  a  species  of  cookery  I  begin  to  grow  tired  of;  they  cut  up  their 
authors  into  chops,  and  by  adding  a  little  crumbled  bread  of  their 
own,  and  tossing  it  up  a  little  they  present  it  as  a  fresh  dish  ;  you 
are  to  dine  upon  the  poet ; — the  critic  supplies  the  garnish  ;  yet 
has  the  credit,  as  well  as  profit,  of  the  whole  entertainment. 


(From  the  Mcinoirs.) 


THE  ART  OF  CONVERSATION 

.  .  For  about  an  hour  nothing  was  uttered  but  words  which 
are  almost  an  equivalent  to  nothing".  The  gentleman  had 
not  yet  spoken.  The  ladies  with  loud  vociferations,  seemed  to 
talk  much  without  thinking  at  all.  The  gentleman,  with  all  the 
male  stupidity  of  silent  recollection,  without  saying  a  single 
syllable,  seemed  to  be  acting  over  the  pantomime  of  thought.  I 
cannot  say,  indeed,  that  his  countenance  so  much  belied  his 
understanding  as  to  express  anything  :  no,  let  me  not  do  him  that 
injustice  ;  he  might  have  sat  for  the  picture  of  insensibility.  I 
endured  his  taciturnity,  thinking  that  the  longer  he  was  in 
collecting,  adjusting,  and  arranging  his  ideas,  the  more  would  he 
charm  me  with  the  tide  of  oratorical  eloquence,  when  the  materials 
of  his  conversation  were  ready  for  display  ;  but  alas  !  it  never 
occurred  that  I  have  seen  an  empty  bottle  corked  as  well  as  a  full 
one.  After  sitting  another  hour,  I  thought  I  perceived  in  him 
signs  of  pregnant  sentiment  which  was  just  on  the  point  of  lacing 
delivered  in  speech.      I  was  extremely  e.xhilarated  at  this,  but  it 


524  ENGLISH  PROSE 


was  a  false  alarm  ;  he  essayed  it  not.  At  length  the  imprisoned 
powers  of  rhetoric  burst  through  the  shallow  mounds  of  torpid 
silence  and  reserve,  and  he  remarked  with  equal  acuteness  of  wit, 
novelty  of  invention,  and  depth  of  penetration,  that — "  we  had 
had  no  summer."  Then,  shocked  at  his  own  loquacity,  he 
double-locked  the  door  of  his  lips,  "and  word  spoke  never 
more.   .   .   " 

(From  the  Same.) 


JEREMY    BENTHAM 

[Jeremy  Bentham  was  bom  in  London  on  the  15th  of  February  1748. 
He  was  educated  at  Westminster  School  and  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  In 
1763  he  became  a  member  of  Lincoln's  Inn.  In  1776  he  published 
anonymously  his  first  important  work,  the  Fragment  o?i  Government.  \\\ 
1789  he  published  his  hitroduction  to  the  Prineiples  of  Morals  and  Legisla- 
tion. He  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  chiefly  to  applying  the  principles 
of  this  work  to  the  amendment  of  particular  branches  of  the  law.  The 
Westminster  Revieto  was  founded  in  1823  at  his  expense  and  by  his  disciples. 
Bentham  died  in  London  on  the  6th  of  June  1832.  A  collected  edition  of  his 
works  with  a  memoir  of  his  life,  filling  eleven  volumes,  was  published  in  1843 
by  John  Bowring,  his  literary  executor.] 

Bentham  was  essentially  a  man  of  science,  not  a  man  of  letters. 
Even  as  a  child  he  did  not  care  for  books  which  did  not  afford 
him  facts.  In  later  life  he  condemned  poetry  on  the  ground 
that  it  was  a  misrepresentation  of  reality.  He  had  himself  a 
strong  logical  factilty,  but  a  weak  imagination.  He  saw  human 
nature  in  the  abstract,  not  in  the  concrete.  He  could  analyse 
motives,  but  he  could  not  depict  character.  In  spite  of  his 
genuine  benevolence  he  had  too  little  sympathy  with  men  to  judge 
his  own  contemporaries  aright  or  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of 
history.  His  only  vigorous  passions  were  the  intellectual  passions 
of  study  and  controversy.  He  led  a  tranquil  life  unruffled  by 
sudden  changes  of  fortune,  by  great  joys  or  by  great  sorrows. 
A  man  so  limited  by  his  nature  and  by  his  circumstances  could 
never  have  been  a  great  literary  artist.  Had  Bentham  adopted 
the  profession  of  letters,  he  might  have  written  some  vigorous 
pamphlets  or  newspaper  articles,  but  he  would  not  have  left 
behind  him  anything  to  interest  later  generations. 

Bentham,  however,  did  not  care  for  literary  distinction.  The 
reform  of  law  was  the  supreme  object  of  his  ambition.  Most  of 
his  works,  having  been  written  with  this  object,  are  technical 
rather  than  literary  in  character.      They  are  taken  up  with  minute 


526  ENGLISH  PROSE 


investigations  into  the  defects  of  English  law,  or  with  elaborate 
expositions  of  an  ideal  legal  system.  They  are  remarkably  full, 
clear,  and  precise  in  statement  ;  but  they  are  not  attractive  ;  they 
are  not  even  readable.  They  have  no  literary  merits  save  those 
which  belong  to  a  good  manual  of  medicine  or  of  engineering. 
They  are  not  works  of  art,  and  therefore  do  not  come  within  the 
scope  of  literature  properly  so  called. 

It  is  only  in  discussing  the  first  principles  of  politics  and 
legislation  that  Bentham  finds  a  subject-matter  giving  scope  for 
literary  treatment.  Bentham  had  meditated  long  and  carefully 
upon  the  ultimate  problems  which  must  be  solved  by  the  legis- 
lator or  by  those  who  furnish  the  legislator  with  ideas.  He  had 
reached  definite  conclusions  respecting  the  origin  of  society,  the 
object  for  which  society  exists,  the  proper  function  of  government, 
and  the  real  meaning  of  political  liberty.  He  stated  his 
conclusions  in  the  Fragment  on  Government,  the  Principles  of 
Morals  and  Legislation,  and  Anarchical  Fallacies.  These  writ- 
ings, few  and  incomplete  as  they  are,  have  exerted  a  considerable 
influence  on  philosophy  and  on  politics.  Upon  these  writings, 
together  with  one  or  two  pamphlets  such  as  the  Defence  of  Usury, 
rests  whatever  literary  reputation  Bentham  has  attained. 

Even  in  handling  themes  of  general  interest  Bentham,  it  must 
be  owned,  is  literary  only  by  accident.  He  cannot  pretend  to  the 
sparkling  elegance  of  Montesquieu,  the  careless  graces  of  Hume, 
or  the  rhetorical  pomp  of  Burke.  His  highest  merit  is  that  he  is 
simple  and  vigorous.  He  writes  like  a  man  who  has  fully  con- 
sidered his  subject  and  who  knows  exactly  what  he  wants  to  say. 
He  writes  without  the  least  endeavour  to  be  fine.  He  is  too 
much  engrossed  with  the  task  of  communicating  his  thoughts  to 
be  desirous  of  calling  attention  to  his  eloquence.  Thus,  if  he  had 
no  literary  graces,  he  has  no  literary  affectation.  By  dint  of 
devotion  to  his  subject  he  comes  to  have  a  style,  not  a  great  or 
a  beautiful  style,  but  a  style  eminently  characteristic  of  the  man, 
adequate  to  his  ideas  and  stimulating  to  the  earnest  reader. 

Bentham's  literary  power  is  most  evident  in  controversial 
passages.  His  virtues  and  his  failings  alike  fitted  him  for  contro- 
versy. What  he  saw  at  all  he  saw  with  remarkable  clearness. 
He  wielded  a  rare  power  of  deductive  reasoning.  He  argued  with 
admirable  stringency  from  his  own  premises.  He  pounced  with 
unerring  keenness  upon  every  fallacy  of  an  opponent.  Like  most 
men    who   can    argue   well    he   argued    with    zest.      His    feelings 


JEREMY  BENTHAM  527 

warmed  and  his  spirits  rose  as  he  pulled  to  pieces  propositions 
which  he  considered  false  and  mischievous.  On  such  occasions 
he  attained  to  a  very  grim  humour  and  even  to  a  very  austere 
eloquence.  It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  English  author  who 
has  wielded  a  greater  destructive  power.  And  it  is  only  just  to 
add  that  Bentham's  ultimate  aim  was  always  constructive.  He 
made  war  upon  that  which  he  regarded  as  error  only  in  order  to 
conquer  room  for  that  which  he  regarded  as  truth. 

F.  C.  Montague. 


THE   POINT  AT  WHICH   RESISTANCE  BECOMES  A 
DUTY   INCAPABLE  OF   DEFINITION 

After  all  these  pains  taken  to  inculcate  unreserved  submission, 
would  any  one  have  expected  to  see  our  author  himself 
(P>lackstone)  among  the  most  eager  to  excite  men  to  disobedience  ? 
and  that,  perhaps,  upon  the  most  frivolous  pretences  ?  in  short, 
upon  any  pretence  whatsoever  ?  Such,  however,  upon  looking 
back  a  little,  we  shall  find  him.  I  say,  amongst  the  most  eager  ; 
for  other  men,  at  least  the  most  enlightened  advocates  for  liberty, 
are  content  with  leaving  it  to  subjects  to  resist,  for  their  own 
sakes,  on  the  footing  of  permission  :  this  will  not  content  our 
author,  but  he  must  be  forcing  it  upon  them  as  a  point  of  duty. 

'Tis  in  a  passage  antecedent  to  the  digression  we  are 
examining,  but  in  the  same  section,  that,  speaking  of  the 
pretended  law  of  nature,  and  of  the  law  of  revelation,  "  No 
human  laws,"  he  says,  "  should  be  suffered  to  contradict  these." 
The  expression  is  remarkable.  It  is  not,  that  no  human  laws 
should  contradict  them,  but  that  no  human  laws  should  be 
suffered  to  contradict  them.  He  then  proceeds  to  give  us  an 
example.  This  example,  one  might  think,  would  be  such  as 
should  have  the  effect  of  softening  the  dangerous  tendency  of  the 
rule  :  on  the  contrary,  it  is  such  as  cannot  but  enhance  it ;  and  in 
the  application  of  it  to  the  rule,  the  substance  of  the  latter  is 
again  repeated  in  still  more  explicit  and  energetic  tenns.  "  Nay," 
says  he,  speaking  of  the  act  he  instances,  "  if  any  human  law  should 
allow  or  enjoin  us  to  commit  it,  we  are  bound  to  transgress  that 
human  law,  or  else  we  must  offend  both  the  natural  and  the  divine." 

The  propriety  of  this  dangerous  niaxim,  so  far  as  the  divine 
law  is  concerned,  is  what  I  must  refer  to  a  future  occasion  for 
more  particular  consideration.  As  to  the  law  of  nature,  if  (as  I 
trust  it  will  appear)  it  be  nothing  but  a  phrase  ;  if  there  be  no 
other  medium  for  proving  any  act  to  be  an  offence  against  it, 
than  the  mischievous  tendency  of  such  act  ;  if  there  be  no  other 


JEREMY  BENTHAM  529 


medium  for  proving  a  law  of  the  state  to  be  contrary  to  it,  than 
the  inexpediency  of  such  law,  unless  the  bare  unfounded  disap- 
probation of  any  one  who  thinks  of  it  be  called  a  proof ;  if  a  test 
for  distinguishing  such  laws  as  would  be  contrary  to  the  law  of 
nature  from  such  as,  without  being  contrary  to  it,  are  simply 
inexpedient,  be  that  which  neither  our  author,  nor  any  man  else, 
so  much  as  pretended  ever  to  give  ;  if,  in  a  word,  there  be  scarce 
any  law  whatever  but  what  those  who  have  not  liked  it  have 
found,  on  some  account  or  another,  to  be  repugnant  to  some  text 
of  Scripture  ;  I  see  no  remedy  but  that  the  natural  tendency  of 
such  doctrine  is  to  impel  a  man,  by  the  force  of  conscience,  to 
rise  up  in  arms  against  any  law  whatever  that  he  happens  not  to 
like.  What  sort  of  government  it  is  that  can  consist  with  such  a 
disposition,  I  must  leave  to  our  author  to  inform  us. 

It  is  the  principle  of  utility,  accurately  apprehended  and 
steadily  applied,  that  affords  the  only  clue  to  guide  a  man  through 
these  straits.  It  is  for  that,  if  any,  and  for  that  alone,  to 
furnish  a  decision  which  neither  party  shall  dare  in  theory  to 
disavow.  It  is  something  to  reconcile  men  even  in  theory. 
They  are,  at  least,  something  nearer  to  an  effectual  union,  than 
when  at  variance  as  well  in  respect  to  theory  as  to  practice. 

In  speaking  of  the  supposed  contract  between  king  and  people, 
I  have  already  had  occasion  to  give  the  description,  and,  it 
appears  to  me,  the  only  general  description  that  can  be  given,  of 
that  juncture  at  which,  and  not  before,  resistance  to  government 
becomes  commendable  ;  or,  in  other  words,  reconcilable  to  just 
notions,  whether  legal  or  not,  at  least  of  moral,  and,  if  there  be 
any  difference,  religious  duty.  What  was  there  said  was  spoken, 
at  the  time,  with  reference  to  that  particular  branch  of  govern- 
ment which  was  then  in  question  ;  the  branch  that  in  this  country 
is  administered  by  the  king.  But  if  it  was  just,  as  applied  to 
that  branch  of  government,  and  in  this  country,  it  could  only  be 
for  the  same  reason  that  it  is  so  when  applied  to  the  whole  of 
government,  and  that  in  any  country  whatsoever.  It  is  then,  we 
may  say,  and  not  till  then,  allowable  to,  if  not  incumbent  on, 
every  man,  as  well  on  the  score  of  duty  as  of  interest,  to  enter 
into  measures  of  resistance  ;  when,  according  to  the  best  calculation 
he  is  able  to  make,  the  probable  mischiefs  of  resistance  (speaking 
with  respect  to  the  community  in  general)  appear  less  to  him  than 
the  probable  mischiefs  of  sul^mission.  This,  then,  is  to  him,  that 
is,  to  each  man  in  particular,  the  juncture  for  resistance. 

VOL.  IV  2  I\I 


530  ENGLISH  PROSE 


A  natural  question  here  is — by  what  sign  shall  this  juncture 
be  known  ?  By  what  common  signal,  alike  conspicuous  and 
perceptible  to  all  ?  A  question  which  is  readily  enough  started, 
but  to  which,  I  hope,  it  will  be  almost  as  readily  perceived  that  it 
is  impossible  to  find  an  answer.  Common  sign  for  such  a 
purpose,  I,  for  my  part  know  of  none,  he  must  be  more  than  a 
prophet,  I  think,  that  can  show  us  one.  For  that  which  shall 
serve  as  a  particular  sign  to  each  particular  person,  I  have 
already  given  dne — his  own  internal  persuasion  of  a  balance  of 
utility  on  the  side  of  resistance. 

Unless  such  a  sign,  then,  which  I  think  impossible,  can  be 
shown,  the  field,  if  one  may  say  so,  of  the  supreme  governor's 
authority,  though  not  infinite,  must  unavoidably,  I  think,  unless 
where  limited  by  express  convention,  be  allowed  to  be  indefinite. 
Nor  can  I  see  any  narrower  or  other  bounds  to  it,  under  this 
constitution,  or  under  any  other  yet  freer  constitution,  if  there  be 
one,  than  under  the  most  despotic.  Before  the  juncture  I  have 
been  describing  were  arrived,  resistance,  even  in  a  country  like 
this,  would  come  too  soon  :  were  the  juncture  arrived  already, 
the  time  for  resistance  would  be  come  already,  under  such  a 
government  even  as  any  one  should  call  despotic. 

In  regard  to  a  government  that  is  free,  and  one  that  is 
despotic,  wherein  is  it,  then,  that  the  difference  consists  ?  Is  it 
that  those  persons  in  whose  hands  that  power  is  lodged  which  is 
acknowledged  to  be  supreme,  have  less  power  in  the  one  than  in 
the  other,  when  it  is  from  custom  that  they  derive  it  ?  By  no 
means.  It  is  not  that  the  power  of  one,  any  more  than  of  the 
other,  has  any  certain  bounds  to  it.  The  distinction  turns  upon 
circumstances  of  a  very  different  complexion — on  the  manner  in 
which  the  whole  mass  of  power,  which,  taken  together,  is  supreme, 
is,  in  a  free  state,  distributed  among  the  several  ranks  of  persons 
that  are  sharers  in  it ;  on  the  source  from  whence  their  titles  to  it 
are  successively  derived — on  the  frequent  and  easy  changes  of 
condition  between  governors  and  governed  ;  whereby  the  interests 
of  the  one  class  are  more  or  less  indistinguishably  blended  with 
those  of  the  other — -on  the  responsibility  of  the  governors  ;  or 
the  right  which  a  subject  has  of  having  the  reasons  publicly 
assigned  and  canvassed  of  every  act  of  power  that  is  exerted  over 
him — on  the  liberty  of  the  press,  or  the  security  with  which  every 
man,  be  he  of  the  one  class  or  the  other,  may  make  known  his 
complaints  and  remonstrances  to  the  whole  community — on  the 


JEREMY  BENTHAM  531 

liberty  of  public  association  ;  or  the  security  with  which  malcon- 
tents may  communicate  their  sentiments,  concert  their  plans,  and 
practise  every  mode  of  opposition  short  of  actual  revolt,  before 
the  executive  power  can  be  legally  justified  in  disturbing  them. 

True,  then,  it  may  be,  that,  owing  to  this  last  circumstance  in 
particular,  in  a  state  thus  circumstanced,  the  road  to  a  revolution, 
if  a  revolution  be  necessary,  is  to  appearance  shorter  ;  certainly 
more  smooth  and  easy.  More  likelihood,  certainly,  there  is  of  its 
being  such  a  revolution  as  shall  be  the  work  of  a  number,  and  in 
which  therefore  the  interests  of  a  number  are  likely  to  be  consulted. 
Grant  then,  that  by  reason  of  these  facilitating  circumstances,  the 
juncture  itself  may  arrive  sooner,  and  upon  less  provocation, 
under  what  is  called  a  free  government,  than  under  what  is  called 
an  absolute  one ;  grant  this — yet,  till  it  be  arrived,  resistance  is 
as  much  too  soon  under  one  of  them  as  under  the  other. 

Let  us  avow  then,  in  short,  steadily  but  calmly,  what  our 
author  hazards  with  anxiety  and  agitation,  that  the  authority  of 
the  supreme  body  cannot,  unless  where  limited  by  express  con- 
vention, be  said  to  have  any  assignable,  any  certain  bounds. 
That  to  say  there  is  any  act  they  cannot  do  ;  to  speak  of  anything 
of  theirs  as  being  illegal,  as  being  void  ;  to  speak  of  their  ex- 
ceeding their  authority  (whatever  be  the  phrase),  their  power, 
their  right — is,  however  common,  an  abuse  of  language. 

The  legislature  cannot  do  it !  The  legislature  cannot  make  a 
a  law  to  this  effect !  Why  cannot  ?  What  is  there  that  should 
hinder  them  ?  Why  not  this,  as  well  as  so  many  other  laws 
murmured  at,  perhaps  as  inexpedient,  yet  submitted  to  without 
any  question  of  the  right  ?  With  men  of  the  same  party,  with 
men  whose  affections  are  already  listed  against  the  law  in  question, 
any  thing  will  go  down  :  any  rubbish  is  good  that  will  add  fuel  to 
the  flame.  But  with  regard  to  an  impartial  bystander,  it  is  plain 
that  it  is  not  denying  the  right  of  the  legislature,  their  authority, 
their  power,  or  whatever  be  the  word — it  is  not  denying  that  they  can 
do  what  is  in  question — it  is  not  that,  I  say,  or  any  discourse  verging 
that  way,  that  can  tend  to  give  him  the  smallest  satisfaction. 

Grant  even  the  proposition  in  general : — What  are  we  the 
nearer  ?  Grant  that  there  are  certain  bounds  to  the  authority  of 
the  legislature  : — Of  what  use  is  it  to  say  so,  when  these  bounds 
are  what  nobody  has  ever  attempted  to  mark  out  to  any  useful 
purpose  ;  that  is,  in  any  such  manner  whereby  it  might  be  known 
beforehand  what  description  a  law  must  be  of  to  fall  within,  and 


532  ENGLISH  PROSE 


what  to  fall  beyond  them  ?  Grant  that  there  are  things  which  the 
legislator  cannot  do  ;  grant  that  there  are  laws  which  exceed  the 
power  of  the  legislature  to,  establish  :  what  rule  does  this  sort  of 
discourse  furnish  us  for  determining  whether  any  one  that  is  in 
question  is,  or  is  not  of  the  number  ?  As  far  as  I  can  discover, 
none.  Either  the  discourse  goes  on  in  the  confusion  it  began  ; 
either  all  rests  in  vague  assertions,  and  no  intelligible  argument 
at  all  is  offered  ;  or,  if  any,  such  arguments  as  are  drawn  from  the 
principle  of  utility  ;  arguments  which,  in  whatever  variety  of  words 
expressed,  come  at  last  to  neither  more  nor  less  than  this  ;  that 
the  tendency  of  the  law  is,  to  a  greater  or  a  less  degree,  pernicious. 
If  this  then  be  the  result  of  the  argument,  why  not  come  home  to 
it  at  once  ?  Why  turn  aside  into  a  wilderness  of  sophistry,  when 
the  path  of  plain  reason  is  straight  before  us. 

What  practical  inferences  those  who  maintain  this  language 
mean  should  be  deduced  from  it  is  not  altogether  clear ;  nor, 
perhaps,  does  everyone  mean  the  same.  Some  who  speak  of  a 
law  as  being  void  (for  to  this  expression,  not  to  travel  through 
the  whole  list,  I  shall  confine  myself)  would  persuade  us  to  look 
upon  the  authors  of  it  as  having  thereby  forfeited,  as  the  phrase 
is,  their  whole  power ;  as  well  that  of  giving  force  to  the 
particular  law  in  question,  as  to  any  other.  These  are  they  who, 
had  they  arrived  at  the  same  practical  conclusion  through  the 
principle  of  utility,  would  have  spoken  of  the  law  as  being  to  such 
a  degree  pernicious,  as  that,  were  the  bulk  of  the  community  to 
see  it  in  its  true  light,  the  probable  mischief  of  resisting  it  would 
be  less  than  the  probable  mischief  of  submitting  to  it.  These 
point,  in  the  first  instance,  at  hostile  opposition. 


(From  A  Fraginctit  on  Government.) 


GOVERNMENT    BY    GENERALIZATION 

The  Declaration  of  Rights  —  I  mean  the  paper  pul)lished 
under  that  name  by  the  French  National  Assembly  in  1791- — 
assumes  for  its  subject-matter  a  field  of  disquisition  as  unbounded 
in  point  of  extent  as  it  is  important  in  its  nature.  But  the  more 
ample  the  extent  given  to  any  proposition  or  string  of  proposi- 
tions, the  more  difficult  it  is  to  keep  the  import  of  it  confined 
without  deviation,  within  the  bounds  of  truth  and  reason.      If  in  the 


JEREMY  BENTHAM  533 

smallest  corners  of  the  field  it  ranges  over,  it  fail  of  coinciding 
with  the  line  of  rigid  rectitude,  no  sooner  is  the  aberration 
pointed  out,  than  (inasmuch  as  there  is  no  medium  between 
truth  and  falsehood)  its  pretensions  to  the  appellation  of  a  truism 
are  gone,  and  whoever  looks  upon  it  must  recognise  it  to  be  false 
and  erroneous, — and  if,  as  here,  political  conduct  be  the  theme, 
so  far  as  the  error  extends  and  fails  of  being  detected,  pernicious. 

In  a  work  of  such  extreme  importance  with  a  view  to  practice, 
and  which  throughout  keeps  practice  so  closely  and  immediately 
and  professedly  in  view,  a  single  error  may  be  attended  with  the 
most  fatal  consequences.  The  more  extensive  the  propositions, 
the  more  consummate  will  be  the  knowledge,  the  more  exquisite 
the  skill,  indispensably  requisite  to  confine  them  in  all  points 
within-  the  pale  of  truth.  The  most  consummate  ability  in  the 
whole  nation  could  not  have  been  too  much  for  the  task — one 
may  venture  to  say,  it  would  not  have  been  equal  to  it.  But 
that,  in  the  sanctioning  of  each  proposition,  the  most  consummate 
ability  should  happen  to  be  vested  in  the  heads  of  the  sorry 
majority  in  whose  hands  the  plenitude  of  power  happened  on 
that  same  occasion  to  be  vested,  is  an  event  against  which  the 
chances  are  almost  as  infinity  to  one. 

Here,  then,  is  a  radical  and  all-pervading  error — the 
attempting  to  give  to  a  work  on  such  a  subject  the  sanction  of 
government  ;  especially  of  such  a  government  —  a  government 
composed  of  members  so  numerous,  so  unequal  in  talent,  as  well 
as  discordant  in  inclinations  and  affections.  Had  it  been  the 
work  of  a  single  hand,  and  that  a  private  one,  and  in  that 
character  given  to  the  world,  eveiy  good  effect  would  have  been 
produced  by  it  that  could  be  produced  by  it  when  published  as 
the  work  of  government,  without  any  of  the  bad  effects  which  in 
case  of  the  smallest  error  must  result  from  it  when  given  as  the 
work  of  government. 

The  revolution,  which  threw  the  government  into  the  hands  of 
the  penners  and  adopters  of  this  declaration,  having  been  the 
effect  of  insurrection,  the  grand  object  evidently  is  to  justify  the 
cause.  But  by  justifying  it,  they  invite  it  ;  in  justifying  past 
insurrection,  they  plant  and  cultivate  a  propensity  to  perpetual 
insurrection  in  time  future  ;  they  sow  the  seeds  of  anarchy  broad- 
cast ;  in  justifying  the  demolition  of  existing  authorities,  they 
undermine  all  future  ones,  their  own  consequently  in  the  number. 
Shallow  and  reckless  vanity  ! — They  imitate  in  their  conduct  the 


534  ENGLISH  PROSE 


author  of  that  fabled  law,  according  to  which  the  assassination  of 
the  prince  upon  the  throne  gave  to  the  assassin  a  title  to  succeed 
him.  "  People  behold  your  rights  !  If  a  single  article  of  them 
be  violated,  insurrection  is  not  your  right  only,  but  the  most 
sacred  of  your  duties."  Such  is  the  constant  language,  for  such 
is  the  professed  object  of  this  source  and  model  of  all  laws — this 
self-consecrated  oracle  of  all  nations. 

The  more  abstract — that  is,  the  more  extensive — the  proposition 
is,  the  more  liable  is  it  to  involve  a  fallacy.  Of  fallacies,  one  of 
the  most  natural  modifications  is  that  which  is  called  begging  the 
question — the  abuse  of  making  the  abstract  proposition  resorted 
to  for  proof,  a  lever  for  introducing,  in  the  company  of  other 
propositions  that  are  nothing  to  the  purpose,  the  very  proposition 
which  is  admitted  to  stand  in  need  of  proof 

Is  the  provision  in  question  fit  in  point  of  expediency  to  be 
passed  into  a  law  for  the  government  of  the  French  nation  ? 
That,  mutatis  mtitaiidis^  would  have  been  the  question  put  in 
England  :  that  was  the  proper  question  to  have  been  put  in 
relation  to  each  provision  it  was  proposed  should  enter  into  the 
composition  of  the  body  of  French  laws. 

Instead  of  that,  as  often  as  the  utility  of  a  provision  appeared 
(by  reason  of  the  wideness  of  its  extent,  for  instance)  of  a 
doubtful  nature,  the  way  taken  to  clear  the  doubt  was  to  assert  it 
to  be  a  provision  fit  to  be  made  law  for  all  men — for  all  French- 
men— and  for  all  Englishmen,  for  example,  into  the  bargain, 
lliis  medium  of  proof  was  the  more  alluring,  inasmuch  as  to  the 
advantage  of  removing  opposition,  was  added  the  pleasure,  the 
sort  of  titillation  so  exquisite  to  the  nerve  of  vanity  in  a  French 
heart  —  the  satisfaction,  to  use  a  homely,  but  not  the  less 
apposite  proverb,  of  teaching  grandmothers  to  suck  eggs.  Hark  ! 
ye  citizens  of  the  other  side  of  the  water  !  Can  you  tell  us  what 
rights  you  have  belonging  to  you  ?  No,  that  you  can't.  It's  ive  that 
understand  rights  :  not  our  own  only,  but  yours  into  the  bargain  ; 
while  you,  poor  simple  souls  !  know  nothing  about  the  matter. 

Hasty  generalisation,  the  great  stumbling  block  of  intellectual 
vanity  ! — hast^  generalisation,  the  rock  that  even  genius  itself  is 
so  apt  to  split  upon  ! — hasty  generalisation,  the  bane  of  prudence 
and  of  science  ! 

In  the  British  Houses  of  Parliament,  more  especially  in  the 
most  efficient  house  for  business,  there  prevails  a  well-known 
jealousy  of,  and  repugnance  to,  the  voting  of  abstract  propositions. 


JEREMY  BENTHAM  535 

This  jealousy  is  not  less  general  than  reasonable.  A  jealousy  of 
abstract  propositions  is  an  aversion  to  whatever  is  beside  the 
purpose — an  aversion  to  impertinence. 

The  great  enemies  of  public  peace  are  the  selfish  and 
dissocial  passions  : — necessary  as  they  are — the  one  to  the  very 
existence  of  each  individual,  the  other  to  his  security.  On  the 
part  of  these  affections,  a  deficiency  in  point  of  strength  is  never 
to  be  apprehended  :  all  that  is  to  be  apprehended  in  respect  of 
them,  is  to  be  apprehended  on  the  side  of  their  excess.  Society 
is  held  together  only  by  the  sacrifices  that  men  can  be  induced 
to  make  of  the  gratifications  they  demand  :  to  obtain  these 
sacrifices  is  the  great  difficulty,  the  great  task  of  government. 
What  has  been  the  object,  the  perpetual  and  palpable  object,  of 
this  declaration  of  pretended  rights  ?  To  add  as  much  force  as 
possible  to  these  passions,  already  but  too  strong, — to  burst  the 
cords  that  hold  them  in, — to  say  to  the  selfish  passions,  there — 
everywhere — is  your  prey!  —  to  the  angry  passions,  there — 
everywhere — is  your  enemy. 

Such  is  the  morality  of  this  celebrated  manifesto,  rendered 
famous  by  the  same  c[ualities  that  gave  celebrity  to  the  incendiary 
of  the  Ephesian  temple. 

The  logic  of  it  is  of  a  piece  with  its  morality  : — a  perpetual 
vein  of  nonsense,  flowing  from  a  perpetual  abuse  of  words — words 
having  a  variety  of  meanings,  where  woi^ds  with  single  meanings 
were  equally  at  hand — -the  same  words  used  in  a  variety  of 
meanings  in  the  same  page, — words  used  in  meanings  not  their 
own,  where  proper  words  were  equally  at  hand, — words  and 
propositions  of  the  most  unbounded  signification,  turned  loose 
without  any  of  those  exceptions  or  modifications  which  are  so 
necessary  on  every  occasion  to  reduce  their  import  within  the 
compass,  not  only  of  right  reason,  but  even  of  the  design  in 
hand,  of  whatever  nature  it  may  be  : — the  same  inaccuracy,  the 
same  inattention  in  the  penning  of  this  cluster  of  truths  on 
which  the  fate  of  nations  was  to  hang,  as  if  it  had  been  an 
oriental  tale,  or  an  allegory  for  a  magazine  : — stale  epigrams, 
instead  of  necessary  distinctions, — figurative  expressions  preferred 
to  simple  ones,  —  sentimental  conceits,  as  trite  as  they  are 
unmeaning,  preferred  to  apt  and  precise  expressions, — frippery 
ornament  preferred  to  the  majestic  simplicity  of  good  sound 
sense, — and  the  acts  of  the  senate  loaded  and  disfigured  by  the 
tinsel  of  the  playhouse. 


536  ENGLISH  PROSE 


In  a  play  or  a  novel,  an  improper  word  is  but  a  word,  and 
the  impropriety,  whether  noticed  or  not,  is  attended  with  no 
consequences.  In  a  body  of  laws — especially  of  laws  given  as 
constitutional  and  fundamental  ones — an  improper  word  may  be 
a  national  calamity,  and  civil  war  may  be  the  consequence  of 
it.      Out  of  one  foolish  word  may  start  a  thousand  daggers. 

Imputations  like  these  may  appear  general  and  declamatory — 
and  rightly  so,  if  they  stood  alone,  but  they  will  be  justified  even 
to  satiety  by  the  details  that  follow.  Scarcely  an  article,  which, 
in  rummaging  it,  will  not  be  found  a  true  Pandora's  box. 

In  running  over  the  several  articles,  I  shall  on  the  occasion  of 
each  article  point  out,  in  the  first  place,  the  errors  it  contains  in 
theory  ;  and  then,  in  the  second  place,  the  mischiefs  it  is  pregnant 
with  in  practice. 

The  criticism  is  verbal : — true,  but  what  else  can  it  be  ? 
Words — words  without  a  meaning,  or  with  a  meaning  too  flatly 
false  to  be  maintained  by  anybody,  are  the  stuff  it  is  made  of 
Look  to  the  letter,  you  find  nonsense  ;  look  beyond  the  letter, 
you  find  nothing. 

(From  A  Critical  Examinatio7i  of  the  Dcclaratioti  of 
Rights.) 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY 


[Frances  Burney  (Madame  d'Arblay)  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Charles 
Burney,  a  musician  of  some  note,  and  was  born  in  London  in  1752.  Her 
education  was  neglected,  and  she  was  left  to  develop  herself  by  her  own 
acuteness  of  observation — for  which  the  society  in  her  father's  house  gave  her 
ample  opportunities — and  by  reading,  of  which  she  was  passionately  fond,  but 
which  did  not  begin  early,  and  was  carried  on  without  guidance.  Even  in 
her  childhood  her  imagination  was  busy  upon  the  construction  of  stories  ;  but 
these  vveie  written  without  the  knowledge  of,  and  with  no  encouragement  from, 
her  relations.  In  1778  she  managed  to  publish,  under  a  strict  anonymity, 
her  first  novel,  Evelina,  or  /he  His/oiy  of  a  Young  Lady's  Entrance  into  the 
World.  It  obtained  a  rapid  popularity,  and  earned  praises  from  those  whose 
praise  was  most  valuable  ;  and  the  secret  of  authorship  soon  leaking  out, 
P'rances  Burney,  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  found  herself  suddenly  famous, 
and  was  surrounded  by  the  flattering  attention  of  such  men  as  Johnson,  Burke, 
Reynolds,  Sheridan,  and  Windham.  In  1782  she  published  her  second  novel, 
Cecilia,  or  the  Memoirs  of  an  Heiress,  which  raised  her  fame  still  higher. 
Having  formed  a  friendship  for  iMrs.  Delany,  she  was  by  her  means  brought 
into  the  service  of  the  Queen  as  keeper  of  the  robes,  and  remained  in  that 
service  for  five  miserable  years,  during  which  her  pen  was  idle  and  her  health 
seriously  injured.  She  retired  in  1791,  and,  residing  in  the  society  of  the 
French  refugees  at  Mickleham,  she  married  the  French  General  d'Arblay,  with 
whom  she  afterwards  spent  many  years  in  France.  In  1796  she  published  her 
third  novel,  Camilla,  or  a  Picture  of  Youth.  Its  success  was  far  less  than 
that  of  its  predecessors,  and  the  Wanderer,  which  followed  in  1814,  is  a  book 
which,  fortunately  for  her  reputation,  is  forgotten.  She  published  the  Memoirs 
of  her  father  in  1832,  and  died  in  1840.  Her  Diaries  and  Letters,  which  are 
full  of  liveliness  and  interest,  were  published  in  1842.] 

Men  who  are  now  in  middle  life  could  hear  accounts  of  the  success 
of  Frances  Burney's  novels  from  the  lips  of  those  to  whom  that 
success  was  a  personal  experience,  and  who  could  recall  the  time 
when  they  were  seized  with  avidity,  were  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion in  every  literary  circle,  and  were  accepted  by  society  as  a 
faithful  mirror  of  its  own  humours.  They  are  now  read  only  by 
the  curious,  and  they  fail  to  attract  any  of  that  ardent  adtniration 
which  a  comparatively  limited,  but  thoroughly  appreciative  audience 


538  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Still  give  to  Jane  Austen.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  oblivion 
will  be  perpetual,  and  whether  an  accident  or  whim  may  not  send 
readers  back  to  Evelina  and  Cecilia  in  greater  numbers,  and 
whether,  when  fashion  has  revived  them,  there  may  not  be  found 
in  them  some  elements  of  enduring  interest.  If  for  no  other 
reason,  Frances  Burney  has  a  secure  place  in  our  literature  as  the 
forerunner  of  Jane  Austen  ;  but  this  is  not  her  only  claim.  Her 
plots  are  without  interest  ;  but  we  feel  that  her  men  and  women 
live  as  those  only  can  who  are  created  by  imagination  working 
upon  a  quick  and  lively  observation.  She  paints  in  strong  colours, 
and  her  drawing  exaggerates  the  features.  As  Macaulay  has 
pointed  out  she  deals  with  the  "  humours  "  of  society,  rather  than 
with  subtle  delineations  of  character.  The  exaggeration  to  which 
she  is  prone  makes  her  characters  wear  a  certain  monotony  of 
contrast,  often  stamps  them  as  caricatures,  and  not  infrequently 
degrades  her  comedy  into  farce,  and  swells  her  tragedy  into  bom- 
bast. But  all  this  need  not  blind  us  to  the  essential  e.xcellence  of 
her  work.  Her  two  first  books  were  her  best,  and  it  would  be 
well  for  her  fame  if  no  others  were  preserved.  In  these  her 
observation  is  most  keenly  awake,  her  fancy  is  most  quick  and 
lively,  her  perception  of  passionate  feeling  most  clear,  and  her 
grasp  of  character  most  strong.  From  first  to  last,  e\en  when  to 
our  mental  habit  she  seems  to  verge  towards  rhodomontade,  there 
is  no  trace  of  affectation.  She  is  not  without  that  rarest  of  gifts,  a 
sense  of  real  humour.  But  the  quality  which  is  most  likely  to 
give  permanence  to  these  books  is  the  presence  of  one  strong  and 
consistent  vein  of  passion,  never  relaxed,  round  which  her  story 
groups  itself,  and  to  the  delineation  of  which  each  incident  is 
subordinated  with  the  skill  of  an  artist.  To  the  variety  and  light- 
ness of  a  picture  of  ever)'day  life  she  adds  the  enduring  dignity  of 
romance,  with  the  largeness  of  drawing  which  idealises  passion. 
The  absence  of  this  element  of  romantic  idealism  is  the  chief 
injury  to  such  modern  fiction  as  most  naturally  suggests  a  compari- 
son with  Frances  Burney  or  Jane  Austen  ;  and  it  is  because  the 
modern  realistic  novel  gives  so  much  attention  to  a  strict  accuracy 
in  infinitesimal  details,  and  so  constantly  neglects  the  welding  ele- 
ment of  romantic  passion,  that  it  seems  to  crumble  into  a  series 
of  disjointed  fragments,  without  any  permanence  of  cohesion,  and 
fails  to  retain  a  lasting  impression  on  the  memory.  We  cannot 
pretend  to  feel  that  all  her  sentiment  has  the  true  ring  of  pathos  ; 
but  if  it  is  often  exaggerated  and  overstrained,  it  is  never  affected 


MADAME  D'ARBLA  V  539 

or  false.  We  cannot  deny  that  her  situations  often  rest  upon 
effete  conventions,  that  her  comic  scenes  are  often  childish  and 
absurd.  We  cannot  follow  without  impatience  the  plot  of  Cecilia, 
which  bases  the  happiness  of  hero  and  heroine  upon  a  ridiculous 
punctilio  asto  thesurrender  of  afamilyname — the  condition  attached 
to  the  heroine's  fortune.  But  we  must  accept  the  conventions 
which  were  actual  a  hundred  years  aj,ro,  though  they  are  now  only 
ludicrous  :  we  have  only  to  ask  whether,  given  those  conditions, 
she  has  made  her  personages  act  with  truth  to  nature  in  their  pre- 
sence, and  we  must  answer  in  the  affirmative.  Ei'dina  and 
Cecilia  remain  as  types  of  perfect  womanhood  ;  their  surroundings 
are  to  us  out  of  joint,  but  their  hearts  are  absolutely  true  to  nature. 
The  cumbersome  convention  makes  the  growth  of  interest  in  them 
slow ;  but  once  roused  the  interest  does  not  wane,  and  carries  us 
with  the  strong  current  of  feeling  to  the  end  of  each  novel. 
Frances  Burney  was  the  first  in  her  kind.  She  handed  on  the 
tradition  of  her  art  to  Jane  Austen,  in  whose  hands  the  por- 
traiture became  more  delicate,  the  shades  of  discrimination  moi'e 
subtle,  the  current  of  the  story  ran  in  a  more  secure  and  well-cut 
channel,  and  its  interest  was  developed  with  greater  art.  But 
Frances  Burney  made  Jane  Austen  possible  ;  and  if  her  touch 
was  less  delicate,  it  was  perhaps  more  bold,  and  the  colours  were 
laid  on  with  a  stronger  brush. 

The  story  of  Evelina  is  told  by  a  series  of  letters,  and  this  is 
one  reason  why  the  style  is  better  than  in  the  later  novels.  The 
authoress  was  then  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  genius.  She  wrote 
by  herself  and  for  herself,  troubled  herself  little  about  models,  and 
was  hampered  by  no  advice.  She  looked  upon  authorship  as 
something  at  which  she  might  make  a  girlish  attempt,  but  which 
she  could  never  seriously  profess.  But  the  simplicity  of  style  is 
helped  also  by  the  epistolary  form.  Most  of  the  letters  are  written 
by  a  girl  of  seventeen,  and  the  author  never  forgets  how  such  a 
heroine  would  write.  Of  the  rest  the  chief  are  written  by  the 
girl's  guardian,  and  in  their  kind  they  are  perfect,  as  expressions 
of  tender  and  delicate  affection.  Four  years  later,  when  Cecilia 
was  written,  the  epistolary  style  was  abandoned.  The  narrative 
style  came  in  its  place,  and  fashion  in  that  day  almost  forced 
narrative  to  adopt  a  solemn  and  inflated  style.  Frances  Burney 
had  in  the  interval  become  a  literary  character.  She  was  never 
left  to  herself,  and  was  surrounded  day  after  day  by  the  most 
finished  talkers  of  the  time,  whose  talk  was  above  all  things  literary 


540  ENGLISH  PROSE 


in  form.  Her  most  cherished  friend  was  Johnson  :  and  Johnson's 
style  was  far  too  dominant  in  every  sphere  of  Hterature  to  permit 
his  chosen  favourite,  the  playmate  of  his  easier  hours,  to  escape 
its  influence.  Macaulay  rigditly  perceives  the  impression  of  his 
style  in  Cecilia;  but  his  inference  that  Johnson's  hand  was  present 
in  many  passages  is  not  so  certainly  true.  His  pervading  influence 
was  so  great  that  no  direct  interference  of  his  was  necessary  to 
make  that  influence  felt. 

Unfortunately  Miss  Burney  neither  retained  her  own  early 
simplicity,  nor  did  she  adhere  to  that  measured  formality  which 
she  had  learned  from  Johnson.  By  whatever  aberration  of  taste, 
or  under  whatever  stress  of  circumstance — it  may  well  be,  as 
Macaulay  surmises,  by  association  with  the  French  refugees  and 
her  subsequent  residence  in  France— she  fell  into  a  style  the  most 
intricate,  the  most  laboured,  and  the  most  affected  that  could  be 
conceived.  Her  later  novels  had  no  qualities  that  could  enable 
them  to  take  their  place  with  Evelina  and  Cecilia;  but  even  if 
their  other  merits  had  been  greater  they  would  have  been  crushed 
into  oblivion  under  the  weight  of  such  a  style  as  is  seen  in  the 
Wafiderer  and  in  the  Memoirs  of  Dr.  Burney. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  in  one  of  the  passages  quoted 
below,  in  which  Miss  Burney  sums  up  the  lesson  of  Cecilia.,  Jane 
Austen  has  found  the  title  of  what  some  hold  to  be  her  finest 
novel.  The  note  is  caught  by  one  genius  from  the  other,  and  it 
serves  as  a  link  between  these  two — the  earliest,  but  not  the  least 
memorable,  of  our  women  novelists. 

H.  Craik. 


EVELINA  TO  THE   REV.    MR.   VILLARS 

This  moment  arrived.  Just  going  to  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  The 
celebrated  Mr.  Garrick  performs  Ranger.  I  am  quite  in  ecstasy. 
So  is  Miss  Mirvan.  How  fortunate  that  he  should  happen  to 
play  !  We  would  not  let  Mrs.  Mirvan  rest  till  she  consented  to 
go.  Her  chief  objection  was  to  our  dress,  for  we  have  no  time 
to  Londonise  ourselves  ;  but  we  teased  her  into  compliance,  and 
so  we  are  to  sit  in  some  obscure  place  that  she  may  not  be  seen. 
As  to  me,  I  should  be  alike  unknown  in  the  most  conspicuous  or 
most  private  part  of  the  house. 

I  can  write  no  more  now.  I  have  hardly  time  to  breathe — 
only  just  this,  the  houses  and  streets  are  not  quite  so  superb  as  I 
expected.  However,  I  have  seen  nothing  yet,  so  I  ought  not  to 
judge. 

Well  ;  adieu,  my  dearest  sir,  for  the  present.  I  could  not  for- 
bear writing  a  few  words  instantly  on  my  arrival,  though  I 
suppose  my  letter  of  thanks  for  your  consent  is  still  on  the  road. 

Saliirday  iiiglit. 

Oh,  my  dear  sir,  in  what  raptures  am  I  returned  ?  Well  may 
Mr.  Garrick  be  so  celebrated,  so  universally  admired — I  had  not 
any  idea  of  so  great  a  performer. 

Such  ease  !  such  vivacity  in  his  manner  !  such  grace  in  his 
motions  !  such  fire  and  meaning  in  his  eyes !  I  could  hardly 
believe  he  had  studied  a  written  part,  for  every  word  seemed  to 
be  uttered  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

His  action  at  once  so  graceful  and  so  free  !  his  voice  so  clear, 
so  melodious,  yet  so  wonderfully  various  in  its  tones  !  Such 
animation  !  every  look  speaks  ! 

I  would  have  given  the  world  to  have  had  the  whole  play 
acted  over    again.      And   when    he    danced — Oh    how   I    envied 


542  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Clarinda !  I  almost  wished  to  have  jumped  on  the  stage  and 
joined  them. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  mad,  so  I  won't  say  any  more  ; 
yet  I  really  believe  Mr.  Garrick  would  make  you  mad  too  if  you 
could  see  him.  I  intend  to  ask  Mrs.  Mii-van  to  go  to  the  play 
eveiy  night  while  we  stay  in  town.  She  is  extremely  kind  to  me  ; 
and  Maria,  her  charming  daughter,  is  the  sweetest  girl  in  the 
world. 

I  shall  write  to  you  every  evening  all  that  passes  in  the  day, 
and  that  in  the  same  manner  as,  if  I  could  see,  I  should  tell  you. 

Sunday. 

This  morning  we  went  to  Portland  Chapel  ;  and  afterwards 
we  walked  in  the  Mall  of  St.  James's  Park,  which  by  no  means 
answered  my  expectations  :  it  is  a  long  straight  walk  of  dirty 
gravel,  very  uneasy  to  the  feet  ;  and  at  each  end,  instead  of  an 
open  prospect,  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  houses  built  of  brick. 
When  Mrs.  Mirvan  pointed  out  the  Palace  to  me — I  think  I  was 
never  much  more  surprised. 

However  the  walk  was  very  agreeable  to  us  ;  everybody  looked 
gay,  and  seemed  pleased  ;  and  the  ladies  were  so  much  dressed, 
that  Miss  Mirvan  and  I  could  do  nothing  but  look  at  them. 
Mrs.  Mirvan  met  several  of  her  friends.  No  wonder,  for  I  never 
saw  so  many  people  assembled  together  before.  I  looked  about 
for  some  of  my  acquaintance,  but  in  vain,  for  I  saw  not  one  person 
that  I  knew,  which  is  very  odd,  for  all  the  world  seemed  there. 

Mrs.  Mirvan  says  we  are  not  to  walk  in  the  Park  again  next 
Sunday,  even  if  we  should  be  in  town,  because  there  is  better 
company  in  Kensington  Gardens  ;  but  really,  if  you  had  seen  how 
much  every  body  was  dressed,  you  would  not  think  that  possible. 

Alonday. 

We  are  to  go  this  evening  to  a  private  ball,  given  by  Mrs. 
Stanley,  a  very  fashionable  lady  of  Mrs.  Mirvan's  acquaintance. 

We  have  been  a-shopping  as  Mrs.  Mirvan  calls  it,  all  this 
morning,  to  buy  silks,  caps,  gauzes,  and  so  forth. 

The  shops  are  really  very  entertaining,  especially  the  mercers  ; 
there  seem  to  be  six  or  seven  men  belonging  to  each  shop  ;  and 
every  one  took  care,  by  bowing  and  smirking  to  be  noticed.  We 
were  conducted  from  one  to  another,  and  carried  from  room  to 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY  543 

room  with  so  much  ceremony,  that  at  first  I  was  ahiiost  afraid  to 
go  on. 

I  thought  I  should  never  have  chosen  a  silk  :  for  they  produced 
so  many,  I  knew  not  which  to  fix  upf)n  ;  and  they  recommended 
them  all  so  strongly,  that  I  fancy  they  thought  I  only  wanted 
persuasion  to  buy  every  thing  they  showed  me.  And,  indeed, 
they  took  so  much  troulile,  that  I  was  almost  ashamed  I  could  not. 

At  the  milliners,  the  ladies  we  met  were  so  much  dressed,  that 
I  should  rather  have  imagined  they  were  making  visits  than 
purchases.  But  what  most  diverted  me  was,  that  we  were  more 
frequently  served  by  men  than  by  women  ;  and  such  men  !  so 
finical,  so  affected  !  they  seemed  to  understand  every  part  of  a 
woman's  dress  better  than  we  do  ourselves  ;  and  they  recom- 
mended caps  and  ribands  with  an  air  of  so  much  importance, 
that  I  wished  to  ask  them  how  long  they  had  left  off  wearing  them. 

The  dispatch  with  which  they  work  in  these  great  shops  is 
amazing,  for  they  have  promised  me  a  complete  suit  of  linen 
against  the  evening. 

I  have  just  had  my  hair  dressed.  You  can't  think  how  oddly 
my  head  feels  ;  full  of  powder  and  black  pins,  and  a  great  cushion 
on  the  top  of  it.  I  believe  you  would  hardly  know  me,  for  my 
face  looks  quite  different  to  what  it  did  before  my  hair  was  dressed. 
When  I  shall  be  able  to  make  use  of  a  comb  for  myself  I  cannot 
tell  ;  for  my  hair  is  so  much  entangled, yr/^ir/^rt?  they  call  it,  that  I 
fear  it  will  be  veiy  difficult. 

I  am  half  afraid  of  this  ball  to-night  ;  for  you  know  I  have 
never  danced  but  at  school :  however,  Miss  Mirvan  says  there  is 
nothing  in  it.      Yet  I  wish  it  was  over. 

Adieu,  my  dear  sir^:  pray  excuse  the  wretched  stuff  I  write  ; 
perhaps  I  may  improve  by  being  in  this  town,  and  then  my 
letters  will  be  less  unworthy  your  reading. — Meantime,  I  am, 
your  dutiful  and  affectionate,  though  unpolished,  Evelina. 

Poor  Miss  Mirvan  cannot  wear  one  of  the  caps  she  made, 
because  they  dressed  her  hair  too  large  for  them. 

(From  Evelina.) 


EVELINA  TO  THE   REV.    MR.  VILLARS 

.   .    .   The  relations   to   whom   she  was   pleased  to  introduce  me, 
consisted  of  a  Mr.   Branghtun,  who  is  her  nephew,  and   three   of 


544  ENGLISH  PROSE 


his  children,  the  eldest  of  which  is  a  son,  and  the  two  younger 
are  daughters. 

Mr.  Branghton  appears  about  40  years  of  age.  He  does  not 
seem  to  want  a  common  understanding,  though  he  is  very  con- 
tracted and  prejudiced  :  he  has  spent  his  whole  time  in  the  city, 
and  I  believe  feels  a  great  contempt  for  all  who  reside  elsewhere. 

His  son  seems  weaker  in  his  understanding,  and  more  gay  in 
his  temper  ;  but  his  gaiety  is  that  of  a  foolish  overgrown  school- 
boy, whose  mirth  consists  in  noise  and  disturbance.  He  disdains 
his  father  for  his  close  attention  to  business,  and  love  of  money  ; 
though  he  seems  himself  to  have  no  talents,  spirit,  or  generosity, 
to  make  him  superior  to  either.  His  chief  delight  appears  to  be 
tormenting  and  ridiculing  his  sisters  ;  who,  in  return,  most 
heartily  despise  him. 

Miss  Branghton,  the  eldest  daughter,  is  by  no  means  ugly  ; 
but  looks  proud,  ill-tempered,  and  conceited.  She  hates  the  city, 
though  without  knowing  why  ;  for  it  is  easy  to  discover  she  has 
lived  nowhere  else. 

Miss  Polly  Branghton  is  rather  pretty,  very  foolish,  very 
ignorant,  very  giddy,  and,  I  believe,  very  good-natured. 

The  first  half-hour  was  allotted  to  maki7ig  t/winsclves  comfort- 
able; for  they  complained  of  having  had  a  very  dirty  walk,  as 
they  came  on  foot  from  Snow  Hill,  where  Mr.  Branghton  keeps  a 
silversmith's  shop  ;  and  the  young  ladies  had  not  only  their 
coats  to  brush,  and  shoes  to  dry,  but  to  adjust  their  head-dress, 
which  their  bonnets  had  totally  discomposed. 

The  manner  in  which  Madam  Duval  was  pleased  to  introduce 
me  to  this  family  extremely  shocked  me.  "  Here,  my  dears," 
said  she,  "here's  a  relation  you  little  thought  of;  but  you  must 
know  my  poor  daughter  Caroline  had  this  child  after  she  run 
away  from  me,— though  I  never  knew  nothing  of  it,  not  I,  for  a 
long  while  after  ;  for  they  took  care  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  me, 
though  the  poor  child  has  never  a  friend  in  the  world  besides." 

"  Miss  seems  very  tender-hearted,  aunt,"  said  Miss  Polly ; 
and  to  be  sure  she's  not  to  blame  for  her  mamma's  undutifulness, 
for  she  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Lord,  no,"  answered  she,  "  and  I  never  took  no  notice  of  it 
to  her :  for,  indeed,  as  to  that,  my  own  poor  daughter  wasn't  so 
much  to  blame  as  you  may  think  ;  for  she'd  never  have  gone 
astray,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  meddling  old  parson  I  told 
you  of" 


MADAME  D'ARBLA  Y  545 

"  If  aunt  pleases,"  said  young  Mr.  Branghton,  "  we'll  talk  o' 
somewhat  else,  for  Miss  looks  very  uneasy-like." 

The  next  subject  that  was  chosen  was  the  age  of  the  three 
young  Branghtons  and  myself.  The  son  is  twenty  ;  the  daughters 
upon  hearing  I  was  seventeen,  said  that  was  just  the  age  of  Miss 
Polly  ;  but  their  brother,  after  a  long  dispute,  proved  that  she 
was  two  years  older,  to  the  great  anger  of  both  sisters,  who 
agreed  that  he  was  very  ill-natured  and  spiteful. 

When  this  point  was  settled,  the  question  was  put.  Which  was 
tallest  ? — We  were  desired  to  measure,  as  the  Branghtons  were 
all  of  different  opinions.  None  of  them,  however,  disputed  my 
being  the  tallest  in  the  company  ;  but,  in  regard  to  one  another, 
they  were  extremely  quarrelsome  :  the  brother  insisted  upon  their 
measuring  /at'r,  and  not  with  /leads  and  /ice/s ;  but  they  would 
by  no  means  consent  to  lose  those  privileges  of  our  sex  ;  and 
therefore  the  young  man  was  cas^,  as  shortest ;  though  he 
appealed  to  all  present  upon  the  injustice  of  the  decree. 

This  ceremony  over,  the  young  ladies  begun,  very  freely,  to 
examine  my  dress,  and  to  interrogate  me  concerning  it.  "  This 
apron's  your  own  work,  I  suppose,  Miss  ?  but  these  sprigs  a'n't 
in  fashion  now.  Pray,  if  it  is  not  impertinent,  what  might  you 
give  a  yard  for  this  lutestring  ? — Do  you  make  your  own  caps, 
Miss  ?  and  many  other  questions  equally  interesting  and  well-bred. 

They  then  asked  me  Aow  I  liked  London  ?  and  whether  I 
should  not  think  the  country  a  very  dull  place,  when  I  returned 
thither  ?  "  Miss  must  try  if  she  can't  get  a  good  husband,"  said 
Mr.  Branghton,  "and  then  she  may  stay  and  live  here." 

The  next  topic  was  public  places,  or  rather  the  theatres,  for 
they  knew  of  no  other  ;  and  the  merits  and  defects  of  all  the 
actors  and  actresses  were  discussed  ;  the  young  man  here  took 
the  lead,  and  seemed  to  be  very  conversant  on  the  subject.  But 
during  this  time,  what  was  my  concern,  and  suffer  me  to  add, 
my  indignation,  when  I  found,  by  some  words  I  occasionally 
heard,  that  Madam  Duval  was  entertaining  Mr.  Branghton  with 
all  the  most  secret  and  cruel  particulars  of  my  situation  !  The 
eldest  daughter  was  soon  drawn  to  them  by  the  recital  ;  the 
youngest  and  the  son  still  kept  their  places  ;  intending,  I  believe, 
to  divert  me,  though  the  conversation  was  all  their  own. 

In  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Branghton  coming  suddenly  up  to  her 
sister,  exclaimed,  "  Lord,  Polly,  only  think  !  Miss  never  saw  her 
papa  ! " 

VOL.   IV  2  N 


546  ENGLISH  PROSE 


"Lord,  how  odd!"  cried  the  other,  "why,  then  Miss  I 
suppose  you  wouldn't  know  him  ? " 

This  was  quite  too  much  for  me  ;  I  rose  hastily,  and  ran  out 
of  the  room  :  but  I  soon  regretted  I  had  so  little  command  of 
myself;  for  the  two  sisters  both  followed,  and  insisted  upon 
comforting  me,  notwithstanding  my  earnest  entreaties  to  be  left 
alone. 

As  soon  as  I  returned  to  the  company,  Madame  Duval  said 
"  Why,  my  dear,  what  was  the  matter  with  you  ?  why  did  you 
run  away  so  ?  " 

This  question  almost  made  me  run  again,  for  I  knew  not  how 
to  answer  it.  But,  is  it  not  very  extraordinary,  that  she  can  put 
me  in  situations  so  shocking,  and  then  wonder  to  find  me  sensible 
of  any  concern  1 

Mr.  Branghton  now  incjuired  of  me,  whether  I  had  seen  the 
Tower,  or  St.  Paul's  Church  ?  and  upon  my  answering  in  the 
negative,  they  proposed  making  a  party  to  show  them  to  me. 
Among  other  questions,  they  also  asked,  if  I  had  ever  seen  such 
a  ihing  as  ati  opera?  I  told  them  I  had.  "Well,"  said  Mr. 
Branghton,  "  I  never  saw  one  in  my  life,  so  long  as  I've  lived  in 
London  ;  and  I  never  desire  to  see  one,  if  I  live  as  much  longer." 

"Lord,  papa,"  cried  Miss  Polly,  "why  not?  you  might  as 
well  for  once,  for  the  curiosity  of  the  thing :  besides  Miss 
Pomfret  saw  one,  and  she  says  it  was  very  pretty." 

"  Miss  will  think  us  very  vulgar,"  said  Miss  Branghton,  "  to 
live  in  London  and  never  have  been  to  an  opera  ;  but  it's  no 
fault  of  mine,  I  assure  you.  Miss,  only  papa  don't  like  to  go." 

The  result  was,  that  a  party  was  proposed,  and  agreed  to,  for 
some  early  opportunity.  I  did  not  dare  contradict  them  ;  but  I 
said  that  my  time,  while  I  remained  in  town,  was  at  the  disposal 
of  Mrs.  Mirvan.  However,  I  am  sure  I  will  not  attend  them,  if 
I  can  possibly  avoid  so  doing. 

When  we  parted.  Madam  Duval  desired  to  see  me  the  next 
day  ;  and  the  Branghtons  told  me,  that  the  first  time  I  went 
towards  Snow  Hill,  they  would  be  very  glad  if  I  would  call  upon 
them. 

I  wish  we  may  not  meet  again  till  that  time  arrives. 

I  am  sure  I  shall  not  be  very  ambitious  of  being  known  to 
any  more  of  my  relations,  if  they  have  any  resemblance  to  those 
whose  acquaintance  I  have  been  introduced  to  already.   .   .  . 

(F^rom  the  Same.) 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY  547 


MR.   VILLARS  TO  EVELINA 

Displeasure  !  My  Evelina ! — You  have  but  done  your  duty  ; 
you  have  but  shown  that  humanity  without  which  I  should  blush 
to  own  my  child.  It  is  mine,  however,  to  see  that  your  generosity 
be  not  repressed  by  your  suffering  from  indulging  it  ;  I  remit  to 
you,  therefore,  not  merely  a  token  of  my  approbation,  but  an 
acknowledgment  of  my  desire  to  participate  in  your  charity. 

O  my  child,  were  my  fortune  equal  to  my  confidence  in  thy 
benevolence,  with  what  transport  should  I,  through  thy  means, 
devote  it  to  the  relief  of  indigent  virtue  !  yet  let  us  not  repine  at 
the  limitation  of  our  power  ;  for  while  our  bounty  is  proportioned 
to  our  ability,  the  difference  of  the  greater  or  less  donation  can 
weigh  but  little  in  the  scale  of  justice. 

In  reading  your  account  of  the  misguided  man,  whose  misery 
has  so  largely  excited  your  compassion,  I  am  led  to  apprehend 
that  his  unhappy  situation  is  less  the  effect  of  misfortune  than 
misconduct.  If  he  is  reduced  to  that  state  of  poverty  represented 
by  the  Branghtons,  he  should  endeavour,  by  activity  and  industry, 
to  retrieve  his  affairs,  and  not  pass  his  time  in  idle  reading  in  the 
very  shop  of  his  creditor. 

The  pistol  scene  made  me  shudder  ;  the  courage  with  which 
you  pursued  this  desperate  man,  at  once  delighted  and  terrified 
me.  Be  ever  thus,  my  dearest  Evelina,  dauntless  in  the  cause  of 
distress  !  let  no  weak  fears,  no  timid  doubts,  deter  you  from  the 
exertion  of  your  duty,  according  to  the  fullest  sense  of  it  that 
Nature  has  implanted  in  your  mind.  Though  gentleness  and 
modesty  are  the  peculiar  attributes  of  your  sex,  yet  fortitude  and 
firmness,  when  occasion  demands  them,  are  ^  irtues  as  noble  and 
as  becoming  in  women  as  in  men  :  the  right  line  of  conduct  is  the 
same  for  both  sexes,  though  the  manner  in  which  it  is  pursued 
may  somewhat  vary,  and  be  accommodated  to  the  strength  or 
weakness  of  the  different  travellers. 

There  is,  however,  something  so  mysterious  in  all  you  have 
seen  or  heard  of  this  wretched  man,  that  I  am  unwilling  to  stamp 
a  bad  impression  of  his  character  upon  so  slight  and  partial  a 
knowledge  of  it.  Where  anything  is  doubtful,  the  ties  of  society 
and  the  laws  of  humanity,  claim  a  favourable  interpretation  ;  but 
remember,  my  dear  child,  that  those  of  discretion  have  an  equal 
claim  to  vour  regard. 


548  ENGLISH  PROSE 


As  to  Sir  Clement  Willoughby,  I  know  not  how  to  express  my 
indignation  at  his  conduct.  Insolence  so  insufferable,  and  the 
implication  of  suspicions  so  shocking,  irritate  me  to  a  degree  of 
wrath,  which  I  hardly  thought  my  almost  worn-out  passions  were 
capable  of  again  experiencing.  You  must  converse  with  him  no 
more  :  he  imagines,  from  the  pliability  of  your  temper,  that  he 
may  offend  you  with  impunity  ;  but  his  behaviour  justifies,  nay, 
calls  for  your  avowed  resentment ;  do  not,  therefore,  hesitate  in 
forbidding  him  your  sight. 

The  Branghtons,  Mr.  Smith,  and  young  Brown,  however  ill- 
bred  and  disagreeable,  are  objects  too  contemptible  for  serious 
displeasure  ;  yet  I  grieve  much  that  my  Evelina  should  be  exposed 
to  their  rudeness  and  impertinence. 

The  very  day  that  this  tedious  month  expires,  I  shall  send 
Mrs.  Clinton  to  town,  who  will  accompany  you  to  Howard  Grove. 
Your  stay  there,  will  I  hope  be  short  ;  for  I  feel  daily  an  increas- 
ing impatience  to  fold  my  beloved  child  to  my  bosom  ! 

Arthur  Villars. 


(From  the  Same.) 


EVELINA  TO   MISS   MIRVAN 

You  complain  of  my  silence,  my  dear  Miss  Mirvan — but  what 
have  I  to  write  ?  Narrative  does  not  offer,  nor  does  a  lively 
imagination  supply  the  deficiency.  I  have,  however,  at  present 
sufficient  matter  for  a  letter,  in  relating  a  conversation  I  had 
yesterday  with  Mr.  Villars. 

Our  breakfast  had  been  the  most  cheerful  we  have  had  since 
my  return  hither  ;  and  when  it  was  over,  he  did  not,  as  usual, 
retire  to  his  study,  but  continued  to  converse  with  me  while  I 
worked.  We  might,  probably,  have  passed  all  the  morning  thus 
sociably,  but  for  the  entrance  of  a  farmer,  who  came  to  solicit 
advice  concerning  some  domestic  affairs.  They  withdrew  together 
into  the  study. 

The  moment  I  was  alone  my  spirits  failed  me  ;  the  exertion 
with  which  I  had  supported  them  had  fatigued  my  mind  ;  I  flung 
away  my  work,  and  leaning  my  arms  on  the  table,  gave  way  to  a 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY  549 

train  of  disagreeable  reflections,  which,  bursting  from  the  restraint 
that  had  smothered  them,  filled  me  with  unusual  sadness. 

This  was  my  situation,  when,  looking  towards  the  door,  which 
was  open,  I  perceived  Mr.  Villars,  who  was  earnestly  regarding 
me.  "Is  Farmer  Smith  gone,  sir?"  cried  I,  hastily  rising,  and 
snatching  up  my  work. 

"  Don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  said  he,  gravely ;  "  I  will  go 
again  to  my  study." 

"  Will  you,  sir  ? — I  was  in  hopes  you  were  coming  to  sit 
here." 

"  In  hopes  ! — and  why,  Evelina,  should  you  hope  it  ? " 

This  question  was  so  unexpected,  that  I  knew  not  how  to 
answer  it ;  but,  as  I  saw  he  was  moving  away,  I  followed,  and 
begged  him  to  return.  "  No,  my  dear,  no,"  said  he,  with  a  forced 
smile,  "  I  only  interrupt  your  meditations." 

Again  I  knew  not  what  to  say  ;  and  while  I  hesitated,  he 
retired.  My  heart  was  with  him,  but  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
follow.  The  idea  of  an  explanation  brought  on  in  so  serious  a 
manner  frightened  me.  I  recollected  the  inference  j<7;^  had  drawn 
from  my  uneasiness,  and  I  feared  that  he  might  make  a  similar 
interpretation. 

Solitary  and  thoughtful,  I  passed  the  rest  of  the  morning  in 
my  own  room.  At  dinner  I  again  attempted  to  be  cheerful  ;  but 
Mr.  Villars  himself  was  grave,  and  I  had  not  sufficient  spirits  to 
support  a  conversation  merely  by  my  own  efforts.  As  soon  as 
dinner  was  over,  he  took  a  book,  and  I  walked  to  the  window.  I 
believe  I  remained  near  an  hour  in  this  situation.  All  my 
thoughts  were  directed  to  considering  how  I  might  dispel  the 
doubts  which  I  apprehended  Mr.  Villars  had  formed,  without 
acknowledging  a  circumstance  which  I  had  suffered  so  much  pain 
merely  to  conceal.  But  while  I  was  thus  planning  for  the  future, 
I  forgot  the  present  ;  and  so  intent  was  I  upon  the  subject  which 
occupied  me,  that  the  strange  appearance  of  my  unusual  inactivity 
and  extreme  thoughtfulness  never  occurred  to  me.  But  when,  at 
last,  I  recollected  myself,  and  turned  round,  I  saw  that  Mr. 
Villars,  who  had  parted  with  his  book,  was  wholly  engrossed  in 
attending  to  me.  I  started  from  my  reverie,  and  hardly  knowing 
what  I  said,  asked  if  he  had  been  reading  ? 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  "Yes,  my  child; — a 
book  that  both  afflicts  and  perplexes  me." 

He  means  wf,  thought  I  ;  and  therefore  I  made  no  answer. 


550  ENGLISH  PROSE 


"  What  if  we  read  it  together  ? "  continued  he,  "  will  you 
assist  me  to  clear  its  obscurity  ?  " 

I  knew  not  what  to  say  ;  but  I  sighed  involuntarily  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  He  rose,  and  approaching  me,  said  with 
emotion,  "  My  child,  I  can  no  longer  be  a  silent  witness  of  thy 
sorrow, — is  not  thy  sorrow  my  sorrow  ? — and  ought  I  to  be  a 
stranger  to  the  cause,  when  I  so  deeply  sympathise  in  the 
effect  ? " 

"Cause,  sir!"  cried  1,  greatly  alarmed,  "what  cause? — I 
don't  know, — I  can't  tell — I — " 

"  Fear  not,"  said  he,  kindly,  "  to  unbosom  thyself  to  me,  my 
dearest  Evelina  ;  open  to  me  thy  whole  heart, — it  can  have  no 
feelings  for  which  I  will  not  make  allowance.  Tell  me,  therefore, 
what  it  is  that  thus  afflicts  us  both  ;  and  who  knows  but  I  may 
suggest  some  means  of  relief  ?  " 

"  You  are  too,  too  good,"  cried  I,  greatly  embarrassed  ;  but 
indeed  I  know  not  what  you  mean." 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  "  it  is  painful  for  you  to  speak  :  suppose, 
then  I  endeavour  to  save  you  by  guessing  ? " 

"Impossible!  impossible!"  cried  I  eagerly;  "  no  one  living 
could  ever  guess,  ever  suppose — "  I  stopped  abruptly  ;  for  I  then 
recollected  I  was  acknowledging  something  was  to  be  guessed  : 
however,  he  noticed  not  my  mistake. 

"  At  least  let  me  try,"  answered  he,  mildly  ;  "  perhaps  I  may 
be  a  better  diviner  than  you  imagine  :  if  I  guess  everything  that 
is  probable,  surely  I  must  approach  near  the  real  reason.  Be 
honest,  then,  my  love,  and  speak  without  reserve  ; — does  not  the 
country,  after  so  much  gaiety,  so  much  variety,  does  it  not  appear 
insipid  and  tiresome  ?  " 

"  No  indeed  !  I  love  it  more  than  ever,  and  more  than  ever 
do  I  wish  I  had  never,  never  quitted  it  !  " 

"Oh  my  child!  that  I  had  not  permitted  the  journey!  My 
judgment  always  opposed  it,  but  my  resolution  was  not  proof 
against  persuasion." 

"  I  blush,  indeed,"  cried  I,  "  to  recollect  my  earnestness  ; — but 
I  have  been  my  own  punisher  !  " 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  answered  he,  "  to  reflect  upon  this  sub- 
ject :  let  us  endeavour  to  avoid  repentance  for  the  time  to  come, 
and  we  shall  not  have  erred  without  reaping  some  instruction." 
Then,  seating  himself,  and  making  me  sit  by  him,  he  continued, 
"  I  must  now  guess  again  :  perhaps  you  regret  the  loss  of  those 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY  551 

friends  you  knew  in  town  ; — perhaps  you  miss  their  society,  and 
fear  you  may  see  them  no  more  ? — perhaps  Lord  Orville — " 

I  could  not  keep  my  seat  ;  but  rising  hastily,  said,  "  Dear 
sir,  ask  me  nothing  more  ! — for  I  have  nothing  to  own, — nothing 
to  say  ; — my  gravity  has  been  merely  accidental,  and  I  can  give 
no  reason  for  it  at  all. — Shall  I  fetch  you  another  book  ? — or  will 
you  have  this  again  ?  " 

For  some  minutes  he  was  totally  silent,  and  I  pretended  to 
employ  myself  in  looking  for  a  book.  At  last  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"  I  see  "  said  he,  "  I  see  but  too  plainly,  that  though  Evelina  is 
returned, — I  have  lost  my  child  !  " 

"  No,  sir,  no,"  cried  I,  inexpressibly  shocked,  "  she  is  more 
yours  than  ever  !  Without  you,  the  world  would  be  a  desert  to 
her,  and  life  a  burden  : — forgive  her,  then,  and, — if  you  can, — 
condescend  to  be  once  more,  the  confidant  of  all  her  thoughts." 

"  How  highly  I  value,  how  greatly  I  wish  for  her  confidence," 
returned  he,  "  she  cannot  but  know  ; — yet  to  extort,  to  tear  it 
from  her, — my  justice,  my  affection  both  revolt  at  the  idea.  I  am 
sorry  I  was  so  earnest  with  you  ;  leave  me,  my  dear,  leave  me, 
and  compose  yourself;  we  will  meet  again  at  tea." 

"  Do  you  then  i-efuse  to  hear  me  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  abhor  to  compel  you.  I  have  long  seen  that  your 
mind  has  been  ill  at  ease,  and  mine  has  largely  partaken  of  your 
concern  :  I  forbore  to  question  you  ;  for  I  hoped  that  time  and 
absence  from  whatever  excited  your  uneasiness,  might  best 
operate  in  silence  :  but  alas  !  your  affection  seems  only  to  aug- 
ment,— your  health  declines, — your  look  alters! — O,  Evelina, 
my  aged  heart  bleeds  to  see  the  change  ! — bleeds  to  behold  the 
darling  it  had  cherished,  the  prop  it  had  reared  for  its  support 
when  bowed  down  by  years  and  infinnities,  sinking  itself  under 
the  pressure  of  internal  grief! — struggling  to  hide  what  it  should 
seek  to  participate  !  But  go  my  dear,  go  to  your  own  room  ;  we 
both  want  composure,  and  we  will  talk  of  this  matter  some  other 
time." 

"  O  sir,"  cried  I  penetrated  to  the  soul,  "  bid  me  not  leave 
you  ! — think  me  not  so  lost  to  feeling,  to  gratitude — " 

"  Not  a  word  of  that,"  interrupted  he  :  "  it  pains  me  you  should 
think  upon  that  subject  ;  pains  me  you  should  ever  remember 
that  you  have  not  a  natural,  an  hereditary  right  to  everything 
within  my  power.  I  meant  not  to  affect  you  thus, — I  hoped  to  have 
soothed  you  ! — but  my  an.xiety  betrayed  me  to  an  urgency  that 


552  ENGLISH  PROSE 


has  distressed  you.  Comfort  yourself,  my  love  ;  and  doubt  not 
but  that  time  will  stand  your  friend,  and  all  will  end  well." 

I  burst  into  tears  :  with  difficulty  I  had  so  long  restrained 
them  ;  for  my  heart,  while  it  glowed  with  tenderness  and  grati- 
tude, was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  its  own  unworthiness. 
"  You  are  all,  all  goodness  !  "  cried  I,  in  a  voice  scarce  audible  ; 
"  little  as  I  deserve, — unable  as  I  am  to  repay,  such  kindness, — 
yet  my  whole  soul  feels, — thanks  you  for  it  ! " 

"  My  dearest  child,"  cried  he,  "I  cannot  bear  to  see  thy  tears  ; 
— for  my  sake  dry  them  ;  such  a  sight  is  too  much  for  me  ;  think 
of  that,  Evelina,  and  take  comfort,  I  charge  thee  !  " 

"  Say  then,"  cried  I,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  "  say  then  that  you 
forgive  me  !  that  you  pardon  my  reserve, — that  you  will  again  suffer 
me  to  tell  you  my  most  secret  thoughts,  and  rely  upon  my 
promise  never  more  to  forfeit  your  confidence  ! — my  father  ! — my 
protector  ! — my  ever-honoured, — ever-loved — my  best  and  only 
friend  ! — say  you  forgive  your  Evelina,  and  she  will  study  better 
to  deserve  your  goodness  !  " 

He  raised,  he  embraced  me  :  he  called  me  his  sole  joy,  his 
only  earthly  hope,  and  the  child  of  his  bosom  !  He  folded  me  to 
his  heart  :  and  while  I  wept  from  the  fulness  of  mine,  with  words 
of  sweetest  kindness  and  consolation,  he  soothed  and  tranquillised 
me. 

Dear  to  my  remembrance  will  ever  be  that  moment  when, 
banishing  the  reserve  I  had  so  foolishly  planned,  and  so  painfully 
supported,  I  was  restored  to  the  confidence  of  the  best  of  men  ! 

(From  the  Same.) 


A  MAN   OF  THE    TON 

"Nay,  if  you  do  not  admire  Mr.  Meadows,"  cried  he,  "you  must 
not  even  whisper  it  to  the  winds." 

"  Is  he  then  so  very  admirable  ?" 

"  Oh  !  he  is  now  in  the  very  height  of  fashionable  favour  ;  his 
dress  is  a  model,  his  manners  are  imitated,  his  attention  is 
courted,  and  his  notice  is  envied." 

"Are  you  not  laughing  ?" 

"  No  indeed  ;  his  privileges  are  much  more  extensive  than  I 
have  mentioned  :  his  decision  fixes  the  exact  limits  between  what 


MADAME  D'AJRBLAY  553 

is  vulgar  and  what  is  elegant,  his  praise  gives  reputation,  and  a 
word  from  him  in  public  confers  fashion  ! " 

"  And  by  what  wonderful  powers  has  he  acquired  such 
influence  ? " 

"  By  nothing  but  a  happy  art  in  catching  the  reigning  foibles 
of  the  times,  and  carrying  them  to  an  extreme  yet  more  absurd 
than  any  one  had  done  before  him.  Ceremony,  he  found,  was 
already  exploded  for  ease,  he  therefore  exploded  ease  for 
indolence  :  devotion  to  the  fair  sex  had  given  way  to  a  more 
equal  and  rational  intercourse,  which,  to  push  still  further,  he 
presently  exchanged  for  rudeness  ;  joviality,  too,  was  already 
banished  for  philosophical  indifference,  and  that,  therefore,  he 
discarded  for  weariness  and  disgust." 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  qualities  such  as  these  should 
recommend  hiin  to  favour  and  admiration  .'' " 

"  Very  possible,  for  qualities  such  as  these  constitute  the 
present  taste  of  the  times.  A  man  of  the  ioti  who  would  now  be 
conspicuous  in  the  gay  world,  must  invariably  be  insipid,  negligent, 
and  selfish," 

"Admirable  requisites!"  cried  Cecilia;  "and  Mr.  Meadows, 
I  acknowledge,  seems  to  have  attained  them  all." 

"  He  must  never,"  continued  Mr.  Gosport,  "  confess  the  least 
pleasure  from  any  thing,  a  total  apathy  being  the  chief  ingredient 
of  his  character  :  he  must,  upon  no  account,  sustain  a  conversa- 
tion with  any  spirit,  lest  he  should  appear,  to  his  utter  disgrace, 
interested  in  what  is  said  ;  and  when  he  is  quite  tired  of  his 
existence,  from  a  total  vacuity  of  ideas,  he  must  affect  a  look  of 
absence,  and  pretend,  on  the  sudden,  to  be  wholly  lost  in  thought." 

"  I  would  not  wish,"  said  Cecilia  laughing,  "  a  more  amiable 
companion  ! " 

"  If  he  is  asked  his  opinion  of  any  lady,"  he  continued,  "he 
must  commonly  answer  by  a  grimace,  and  if  he  is  seated  next  to 
one,  he  must  take  the  utmost  pains  to  show,  by  his  listlessness, 
yawning,  and  inattention,  that  he  is  sick  of  his  situation  ;  for  what 
he  holds  of  all  things  to  be  most  gothic  is  gallantry  to  the  women. 
To  avoid  this  is,  indeed,  the  principal  solicitude  of  his  life.  If 
he  sees  a  lady  in  distress  for  her  carriage,  he  is  to  inquire  of  her 
what  is  the  matter,  and  then  with  a  shrug,  wish  her  well  through 
her  fatigues,  wink  at  some  bystander,  and  walk  away.  If  he  is 
in  a  room  where  there  is  a  crowd  of  company,  and  a  scarcity  of 
seats,  he  must  early  ensure  one  of  the  best  in  the  place,  be  blind 


554  ENGLISH  nwSE 


to  all  looks  of  fatigue,  and  deaf  to  all  hints  of  assistance  and 
seeming  totally  to  forget  himself,  lounge  at  his  ease,  and  appear 
an  unconscious  spectator  of  what  is  going  forward.  If  he  is  at  a 
ball  where  there  are  more  women  than  men,  he  must  decline 
dancing  at  all,  though  it  should  happen  to  be  his  favourite  amuse- 
ment, and  smiling  as  he  passes  the  disengaged  young  ladies, 
wonder  to  see  them  sit  still,  and  perhaps  ask  them  the  reason  !  " 

"A  most  alluring  character,  indeed!"  cried  Cecilia:  "  and  pray 
how  long  have  these  been  the  accomplishments  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man ?  •' 

"  I  am  but  an  indifferent  chronologer  of  the  modes,"  he 
answered  ;  "  but  I  know  it  has  been  long  enough  to  raise  just 
expectations  that  some  new  folly  will  be  started  soon,  by  which 
the  present  race  of  Insensibilists  may  be  driven  out.  Mr. 
Meadows  is  now  at  the  head  of  this  sect,  as  Miss  Larolles  is  of 
the  Voluble,  and  Miss  Leeson  of  the  Supercilious.  But  this  way 
comes  another,  who,  though  in  a  different  manner,  labours  with 
the  same  view,  and  aspires  at  the  same  reward  which  stimulates 
the  ambition  of  this  happy  triplet,  that  of  exciting  wonder  by 
peculiarity,  and  envy  by  wonder." 

This  description  announced  Captain  Aresby  ;  who,  advancing 
from  the  fireplace,  told  Cecilia  how  much  he  rejoiced  in  seeing 
her,  said  he  had  been  reduced  to  despair  by  so  long  missing  that 
honour,  and  that  he  had  feared  she  7tiade  it  a  principle  to  avoid 
coming  in  public,  having  sought  her  in  vain  partout. 

He  then  smiled,  and  strolled  on  to  another  party. 

"  And  pray  of  what  sect,"  said  Cecilia,  "  is  this  gentleman  .? " 

"  Of  the  sect  of  Jargonists,"  answered  Mr.  Gosport ;  "  he  has 
not  an  ambition  beyond  paying  a  passing  compliment,  nor  a  word 
to  make  use  of  that  he  has  not  picked  up  at  public  places.  Yet 
this  dearth  of  language,  however  you  may  despise  it,  is  not 
merely  owing  to  a  narrow  capacity  ;  foppery  and  conceit  have 
their  share  in  the  limitation  ;  for  though  his  phrases  are  almost 
always  ridiculous  or  misapplied,  they  are  selected  with  much 
study,  and  introduced  with  infinite  pain." 

"  Poor  man  !  "  cried  Cecilia,  "  is  it  possible  it  can  cost  him 
any  trouble  to  render  himself  so  completely  absurd  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  but  not  more  than  it  costs  his  neighbours  to  keep  him 
in  countenance.  Miss  Leeson,  since  she  has  presided  over  the 
sect  of  the  Supercilious,  spends  at  least  half  her  life  in  wishing  the 
annihilation  of  the  other  half;  for  as  she  must  only  speak  in  her 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY  555 

own  coterie,  she  is  compelled  to  be  frequently  silent,  and  therefore, 
having  nothing  to  think  of,  she  is  commonly  grown  with  self- 
denial,  and  soured  with  want  of  amusement :  Miss  Larolles, 
indeed,  is  better  off,  for  in  talking  faster  than  she  thinks,  she  has 
but  followed  the  natural  bent  of  her  disposition  :  as  to  this  poor 
jargonist,  he  has,  I  must  own,  rather  a  hard  task,  from  the 
continual  restraint  of  speaking  only  out  of  his  own  Liliputian 
vocabulary,  and  denying  himself  the  relief  of  ever  uttering  one 
word  by  the  call  of  occasion  :  but  what  hardship  is  that  compared 
with  what  is  borne  by  Mr.  Meadows  !  who,  since  he  commenced 
insensibilist,  has  never  once  dared  to  be  pleased,  nor  ventured 
for  a  moment  to  look  in  good  humour  I  '' 

"  Surely,  then,"  said  Cecilia,  "  in  a  short  time  the  punishment 
of  this  affectation  will  bring  its  cure." 

"  No  ;  for  the  trick  grows  into  habit,  and  habit  is  a  second 
nature.  A  secret  idea  of  fame  makes  his  forbearance  of  happi- 
ness supportable  to  him  ;  for  he  has  now  the  self-satisfaction  of 
considering  himself  raised  to  that  highest  pinnacle  of  fashionable 
refinement  which  is  built  upon  apathy  and  scorn,  and  from  which, 
proclaiming  himself  superior  to  all  possibility  of  enjoyment,  he 
views  the  whole  world  with  contempt  !  holding  neither  beauty, 
virtue,  wealth,  nor  power,  of  importance  sufficient  to  kindle  the 
smallest  emotion  !  "  {YxQxa  Cecilia.) 


PRIDE  AND    PREJUDICE 

His  conference  with  Dr.  Lyster  was  long  and  painful,  but 
decisive :  that  sagacious  and  friendly  man  knew  well  how  to 
work  upon  his  passions,  and  so  effectually  awakened  them  by 
representing  the  disgrace  of  his  own  family  from  the  present 
situation  of  Cecilia  that  before  he  quitted  his  house  he  was 
authorised  to  invite  her  to  remove  to  it. 

When  he  returned  from  his  embassy,  he  found  Delvile  in  her 
room,  and  each  waiting  with  impatience  the  event  of  his 
negotiation. 

The  doctor  with  much  alacrity  gave  Cecilia  the  Invitation 
with  which  he  had  been  charged  ;  but  Delvile,  jealous  for  her 
dignity,  was  angry  and  dissatisfied  his  father  brought  it  not 
himself,  and  exclaimed  with  much  mortification,  "  Is  this  all  the 
grace  accorded  me  ? " 


556  ENGLISH  PROSE 


"  Patience,  patience,  sir,"  answered  the  doctor  ;  "  when  you 
have  thwarted  anybody  in  their  first  hope  and  ambition,  do  you 
expect  they  will  send  you  their  compliments  and  many  thanks 
for  the  disappointment  ?  Pray  let  the  good  gentleman  have  his 
way  in  some  little  matters,  since  you  have  taken  such  effectual 
care  to  put  out  of  his  reach  the  power  of  having  it  in  greater." 

"  Oh !  far  from  starting  obstacles,"  cried  Cecilia,  "  let  us 
solicit  a  reconciliation  with  whatever  concessions  he  may  require. 
The  misery  of  disobedience  we  have  but  too  fatally  experienced  ; 
and  thinking  as  we  think  of  filial  ties  and  parental  claims, 
how  can  we  ever  hope  happiness  till  forgiven  and  taken  into 
favour  ? " 

"  True,  my  Cecilia,"  answered  Delvile,  "  and  generous  and 
condescending  as  true  ;  and  if  you  can  thus  sweetly  comply,  I 
will  gratefully  forbear  making  any  opposition.  Too  much 
already  have  you  suffered  from  the  impetuosity  of  my  temper, 
but  I  will  try  to  curb  it  in  future  by  the  remembrance  of  your 
injuries.  " 

"The  whole  of  this  unfortunate  business,"  said  Dr.  Lyster, 
"  has  been  the  result  of  pride  and  prejudice.  Your  uncle,  the 
Dean,  began  it,  by  his  arbitrary  will,  as  if  an  ordinance  of  his  own 
could  arrest  the  course  of  nature  !  and  as  if  he  had  power  to 
keep  alive,  by  the  loan  of  a  name,  a  family  in  the  male  branch 
already  extinct.  Your  father,  Mr.  Mortimer,  continued  it  with 
the  same  self-partiality,  preferring  the  wretched  gratification  of 
tickling  his  ear  with  a  favourite  sound,  to  the  solid  happiness  of  his 
son  with  a  rich  and  deserving  wife.  Yet  this,  however,  remember, 
if  to  pride  and  prejudice  you  owe  your  miseries,  so  wonderfully 
is  good  and  evil  balanced,  that  to  pride  and  prejudice  you  will 
also  owe  their  termination :  for  all  that  I  could  say  to  Mr. 
Delvile,  either  of  reasoning  or  entreaty, — and  I  said  all  I  could 
suggest,  and  I  suggested  all  a  man  need  wish  to  hear, — was 
totally  thrown  away,  till  I  pointed  out  to  him  his  own  disgrace  in 
having  a  daughter-in-law  immured  in  these  mean  lodgings  ! " 

"  Thus,  my  dear  young  lady,  the  terror  which  drove  you  to 
this  house,  and  the  sufferings  which  have  confined  you  in  it,  will 
prove,  in  the  event,  the  source  of  your  future  peace  :  for  when  all 
my  best  rhetoric  failed  to  melt  Mr.  Delvile,  I  instantly  brought 
him  to  terms  by  coupling  his  name  with  a  pawnbroker's  !  And 
he  could  not  with  more  disgust  hear  his  son  called  Mr.  Beverley, 
than  think  of  his  son's  wife  when  he  hears  of  the  Three  Blue 


MADAME  D'ARBLA  Y  557 

Bells  !     Thus  the  same  passions,  taking  but  different  directions, 

do  mischief,  and  cure  it  alternately." 

"  Such  my  good  young  friends  is  the  moral  of  your  calamities. 

You  have  all,  in  my  opinion,  been  strangely  at  cross  purposes, 

and  trifled,  no  one  knows  why,  with  the  first  blessings  of  life. 

My  only  hope  is  that  now,  having  among  you  thrown  away  its 

luxuries,  you  will  have  known  enough  of  misery  to  be  glad    to 

keep  its  necessaries."  ,„         ^v     e         \ 

^  (From  the  Same.) 


DUGALD    STEWART 


[Dugald  Stewart,  son  of  Dr.  Matthew  Stewart,  the  mathematician,  was 
born  at  Edinburgh  1753,  and  educated  at  Edinburgh  High  School  and 
Glasgow  University.  In  1775  he  became  Professor  of  Mathematics  at 
Edinburgh,  and  in  1785  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  resigning  through 
ill  health  in  1810.      He  died  at  Edinburgh  in  1828. 

He  published  in  1792  Elements  of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Humati  Mind,  vol. 
i.  ;  in  1793  vol.  ii.  ;  in  1814  vol.  iii.  ;  in  1827  Outlines  of  Moral  Philosophy  ; 
in  1810  Philosophical  Essays  ;  in  1816  and  1821  "  Dissertation  on  the  Progress 
of  Metaphysical,  etc.,  Philosophy,"  in  the  Supplement  to  the  6th  edition  of 
the  Eiicyclopcedia  Britannica  ;  in  1828  Philosophy  of  the  Active  and  Moral 
Powers  of  Man.  His  Political  Econo7ny  and  minor  works  were  published 
in  the  complete  edition  of  his  works  carefully  and  learnedly  edited  (1854-6) 
by  Sir  William  Hamilton,  his  friend  and  pupil.  Stewart  published  also  (1795, 
etc. )  biographies  of  Adam  Smith,  Robertson,  and  Reid.  vStewart's  own 
biography  has  been  written  by  Professor  Veitch  (for  Hamilton's  edition  of 
his  works).] 

Towards  Dugald  Stewart  his  friends  and  hearers  felt  something 
of  the  reverence  of  Plato's  Socrates  for  Parmenides.  "  He  breathed 
the  love  of  virtue  into  whole  generations  of  pupils."  The  fragrance 
of  his  character  impressed  such  different  men  as  Francis  Horner, 
Henry  Cockburn,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  Robert  Burns,  Thomas 
Carlyle,  and  Sir  William  Hamilton.  He  was  at  once  saint  and 
philosopher.  His  fame  went  far  beyond  Scotland.  "  Without 
derogation  from  his  writings  it  may  be  said  that  his  disciples 
were  among  his  best  works  "  {Afackhi/osh).  No  professor  ever 
aroused  more  interest  in  his  subject  or  more  truly  formed  the 
minds  of  his  students.  He  had' eloquence  too,  that  fascinated 
hearers  who  cared  nothing  for  his  or  any  other  philosophy. 
"  He  was  the  greatest  of  didactic  orators  "  {Cockburn). 

Such  powers  must  be  taken  on  testimony ;  but  every  one 
who  is  inclined  may  make  proof  of  the  wide  reach  of  .Stewart's 
learning,  especially  in  philosophical  and  economical  subjects, 
and  gather  by  reading   his    books    a  notion  of   the  fineness    of 


56o  ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  "  fine  writing,"  which  showed  him  a  son  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

As  a  philosopher,  he  stands  or  falls  with  Thomas  Reid. 
He  bettered  Reid's  terminology.  Nothing  could  be  worse  than 
Reid's  expression  "  common  sense,"  to  indicate  the  knowledgre  of 
first  principles  ;  and  Stewart  more  wisely  made  use  of  the  phrase 
"fundamental  laws  of  belief"  in  describing  the  leading  philo- 
sophical view  of  the  Scottish  school  {Outlines  of  Mor.  PMl.^  pt.  i. 
sect.  ix).  If  earlier  adopted,  this  cautious  phraseology  might 
have  saved  the  school  from  much  ridicule.  But  otherwise  Stewart 
leaves  the  "  Scottish  Philosophy  "  where  he  found  it. 

The  effect  of  devotion  to  "  fundamental  laws,"  was,  at  least 
in  Stewart's  case,  to  give  undue  prominence  to  mere  classifications, 
and  to  leave  details  almost  ostentatiously  unsystematic.  This 
applies  both  to  his  metaphysics  and  to  his  moral  philosophy. 
Stewart's  imperfect  knowledge  of  German  speculations  may  have 
saved  his  style,  at  the  cost  of  his  philosophy. 

Out  of  the  classroom  he  enjoyed  conversation  of  a  "  rambling 
light  literary  kind."  He  shunned  the  least  approach  to  a  dis- 
cussion. Such  is  Horner's  account  ;  and  Horner  was  his  typical 
pupil,  thoughtful,  calm,  studious,  interested  in  philosophy,  and 
still  more  interested  in  the  problems  of  government  and  in  the 
condition  of  the  people. 

J.  BONAR. 


THE   DESIRE  OF   ESTEEM 

This  principle,  as  well  as  those  we  have  now  been  considering, 
discovers  itself  at  a  very  early  period  in  infants,  who,  long  before 
they  are  able  to  reflect  on  the  advantages  resulting  from  the 
good  opinion  of  others,  and  even  before  they  acquire  the  use  of 
speech,  are  sensibly  mortified  by  any  expression  of  neglect  or 
contempt.  It  seems,  therefore,  to  be  an  original  principle  of  our 
nature,  that  is,  it  does  not  appear  to  be  resolvable  into  reason 
and  experience,  or  into  any  other  principle  more  general  than 
itself  An  additional  proof  of  this  is  the  very  powerful  in- 
fluence it  has  over  the  mind, — an  influence  more  striking  than 
that  of  any  other  active  principle  whatsoever.  Even  the  love  of 
life  daily  gives  way  to  the  desire  of  esteem,  and  of  an  esteem 
which,  as  it  is  only  to  affect  our  memories,  cannot  be  supposed  to 
interest  our  self-love.  In  what  manner  the  association  of  ideas 
should  manufacture,  out  of  the  other  principles  of  our  constitution, 
a  new  principle  stronger  than  them  all,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive. 

In  these  observations  I  have  had  an  eye  to  the  theories  of 
those  modern  philosophers  who  represent  self-love,  or  the  desire 
of  happiness,  as  the  only  original  principle  of  action  in  man,  and 
who  attempt  to  account  for  the  origin  of  all  our  other  active 
principles  from  habit  or  the  association  of  ideas. 

That  this  theory  is  just  in  some  instances  cannot  be  disputed. 
Thus,  in  the  case  of  avarice  it  is  manifest  that  it  is  from  habit 
alone  it  derives  its  influence  over  the  mind  ;  for  no  man  surely 
was  ever  brought  into  the  world  with  an  innate  love  of  money. 
Money  is  at  first  desired,  merely  as  the  means  of  obtaining  other 
objects ;  but,  in  consequence  of  being  long  and  constantly 
accustomed  to  direct  our  efforts  to  its  attainment  on  account  of 
its  apprehended  utility,  we  come  at  last  to  pursue  it  as  an 
ultimate  end,  and  frequently  retain  our  attachment  to  it  long  after 
we    have    lost    all    relish    for   the   enjoyments    it    enables    us    to 

VOL.  IV  20 


562  ENGLISH  PROSE 


command.  In  like  manner  it  has  been  supposed  that  the  esteem 
of  our  fellow- creatures  is  at  first  desired  on  account  of  its 
apprehended  utility,  and  that  it  comes  in  time  to  be  pursued  as 
an  ultimate  end,  without  any  reference  on  our  part  to  the 
advantages  it  bestows.  In  opposition  to  this  doctrine  it  seems 
to  me  to  be  clear,  that  as  the  object  of  hunger  is  not  happiness 
but  food  ;  as  the  object  of  curiosity  is  not  happiness  but  know- 
ledge ;  so  the  object  of  this  principle  of  action  is  not  happiness, 
but  the  esteem  and  respect  of  other  men.  That  this  is  not  in- 
consistent with  the  analogy  of  our  nature  appears  from  the 
observations  already  made  on  our  appetites  and  desires  ;  and 
that  it  really  is  the  fact  may  be  proved  by  various  arguments. 
Before  touching,  however,  on  these,  I  must  remark  that  I  consider 
this  as  merely  a  question  of  speculative  curiosity  ;  for,  upon 
either  supposition,  the  desire  of  esteem  is  equally  the  work  of 
nature,  and,  consequently,  upon  either  supposition,  it  is  equally 
unphilosophical  to  attempt,  by  metaphysical  subtleties,  to  counter- 
act her  wise  and  beneficent  purposes. 

Among  the  different  arguments  which  concur  to  prove  that  the 
desire  of  esteem  is  not  wholly  resolvable  into  the  association  of 
ideas,  one  of  the  strongest  has  been  already  hinted  at ;  the 
early  period  of  life  at  which  this  principle  of  life  discovers  itself— 
long  before  we  are  able  to  form  the  idea  of  happiness,  far  less  to 
judge  of  the  circumstances  which  have  a  tendency  to  promote  it. 
The  difference  in  this  respect  between  avarice  and  the  desire  of 
esteem  is  remarkable.  The  former  is  the  vice  of  old  age,  and  is, 
comparatively  speaking,  confined  to  a  few.  The  latter  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  engines  in  the  education  of  children,  and  is  not 
less  universal  in  its  influence  than  the  principle  of  curiosity. 

The  desire,  too,  of  posthumous  fame,  of  which  no  man  can 
entirely  divest  himself,  furnishes  an  insurmountable  objection  to 
the  theories  already  mentioned.  It  is  indeed  an  objection  so 
obvious  to  the  common  sense  of  mankind,  that  all  the  philosophers 
Avho  have  leaned  to  these  theories  have  employed  their  ingenuity 
in  attempting  to  resolve  this  desire  into  an  illusion  of  the  imagina- 
tion produced  by  habit.   .  .   . 

.  .  .  But  why  have  recourse  to  an  illusion  of  the  imagination 
to  account  for  a  principle  which  the  wisest  of  men  find  it 
impossible  to  extinguish  in  themselves,  or  even  sensibly  to 
weaken  ;  and  none  more  remarkably  than  some  of  those  who 
have   employed    their   ingenuity    in    attempting    to    turn    it    into 


DUGALD  STEWART  563 

ridicule  ?  Is  it  possible  that  men  should  imagine  themselves 
present  and  enjoying  their  fame  at  the  reading  of  their  story  after 
death,  without  being  conscious  of  this  operation  of  the  imagination 
themselves  ?  Is  not  this  to  depart  from  the  plain  and  obvious 
appearance  of  the  fact,  and  to  adopt  refinements  similar  to  those 
by  which  the  selfish  philosophers  explain  away  all  our  disinterested 
afifections  ?  We  might  as  well  suppose  that  a  man's  regard  for 
the  welfare  of  his  posterity  and  friends  after  his  death  does  not 
arise  from  natural  affection,  but  from  an  illusion  of  the  imagina- 
tion, leading  him  to  suppose  himself  still  present  with  them,  and 
a  witness  of  their  prosperity.  If  we  have  confessedly  various 
other  propensities  directed  to  specific  objects  as  ultimate  ends, 
where  is  the  difficulty  of  conceiving  that  a  desire  directed  to  the 
good  opinion  of  our  fellow-creatures,  without  any  reference  to  the 
advantages  it  is  to  yield  us  either  now  or  hereafter  may  be  among 
the  number  ? 

It  would  not  indeed  (as  I  have  already  hinted)  materially 
affect  the  argument,  although  we  should  suppose  with  Wollaston, 
that  the  desire  of  posthumous  fame  was  resolvable  into  an  illusion 
of  the  imagination.  For,  whatever  be  its  origin,  it  was  plainly 
the  intention  of  nature  that  all  men  should  be  in  some  measure 
under  its  influence  ;  and  it  is  perhaps  of  little  consequence  whether 
we  regard  it  as  a  principle  originally  implanted  by  nature,  or 
suppose  that  she  has  laid  a  foundation  for  it  in  other  principles 
which  belong  universally  to  the  species. 

How  very  powerfully  it  operates,  appears  not  only  from  the 
heroical  sacrifices  to  which  it  has  led  in  every  age  of  the  world, 
but  from  the  conduct  of  the  meanest  and  most  worthless  of 
mankind,  who,  when  they  are  brought  to  the  scaffold  in  conse- 
quence of  the  clearest  and  most  decisive  evidence  of  their  guilt, 
frequently  persevere  to  the  last,  with  the  terrors  of  futurity  full  in 
their  view,  in  the  most  solemn  protestations  of  their  innocence  ; 
and  that  merely  in  the  hope  of  leavmg  behind  them  not  a  fair 
but  an  equivocal  or  problematical  reputation. 

With  respect  to  the  other  parts  of  Wollaston's  reasoning,  that 
it  is  only  the  letters  which  compose  our  names  that  we  can 
transmit  to  posterity,  it  is  worthy  of  observation,  that,  if  the 
argument  be  good  for  anything,  it  applies  equally  against  the 
desire  of  esteem  from  our  contemporaries,  excepting  in  those 
cases  in  which  we  ourselves  are  personally  known  by  those  whose 
praise  we  covet,  and  of  whose  applause  we  happen  ourselves  to 


564  ENGLISH  PROSE 


be  ear-witnesses  :  And  yet  undoubtedly,  according  to  the  common 
judgment  of  mankind,  the  love  of  praise  is  more  peculiarly  the 
mark  of  a  liberal  and  elevated  spirit  in  cases  where  the  gratification 
it  seeks  has  nothing  to  recommend  it  to  those  whose  ruling 
passions  are  interest  or  the  love  of  flattery.  It  is  precisely  for 
the  same  reason  that  the  love  of  posthumous  fame  is  strongest  in 
the  noblest  and  most  exalted  characters.  If  self-love  were  really 
the  sole  motive  in  all  our  actions,  Wollaston's  reasoning  would 
prove  clearly  the  absurdity  of  any  concern  about  our  memory. 
"Such  a  concern"  (as  Dr.  Hutcheson  observes)  "no  selfish 
being,  who  had  the  modelling  of  his  own  nature,  would  choose  to 
implant  in  himself  But,  since  we  have  not  this  power,  we  must 
be  contented  to  be  thus  outwitted  by  nature  into  a  public  interest 
against  our  will." 

(From  PJiilosop/ty  of  the  Active  and  Moral  Powers.') 


THE   USE  AND  ABUSE  OF  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 
IN   POLITICS 

Beforic  proceeding  farther,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  premise 
that  it  is  chiefly  in  compliance  with  common  language  and  common 
prejudices,  that  I  am  sometimes  led,  in  the  following  observations, 
to  contrast  theory  with  experience.  In  the  proper  sense  of  the 
word  theory,  it  is  so  far  from  standing  in  opposition  to  experience 
that  it  implies  a  knowledge  of  principles,  of  which  the  most 
e.xtensive  experience  alone  could  put  us  in  possession.  Prior  to 
the  time  of  Lord  Bacon,  indeed,  an  acquaintance  with  facts  was 
not  considered  as  essential  to  the  formation  of  theories  ;  and  from 
these  ages  has  descended  to  us  an  indiscriminate  prejudice 
against  general  principles,  even  in  those  cases  in  which  they  have 
been  fairly  obtained  in  the  way  of  induction. 

But  not  to  dispute  about  words  ;  there  are  plainly  two  sets  of 
political  reasoners  ;  one  of  which  consider  the  actual  institutions 
of  mankind  as  the  only  safe  foundation  for  our  conclusions,  and 
think  every  plan  of  legislation  chimerical,  which  is  not  copied 
from  one  which  has  already  been  realised :  while  the  other 
apprehend  that,  in  many  cases,  we  may  reason  safely  a  priori 
from  the  known  principles  of  human  nature,  combined  with  the 
particular  circumstances  of  the  times.      The  former  are  commonly 


DUGALD  STEWART  565 


understood  as  contending  for  experience  in  opposition  to  theory  ; 
the  latter  are  accused  of  trusting  to  theory  unsupported  by 
experience  :  but  it  ought  to  be  remembered,  that  the  poHtical 
theorist,  if  he  proceeds  cautiously  and  philosophically,  founds  his 
conclusions  ultimately  on  experience,  no  less  than  the  political 
empiric  ; — as  the  astronomer  who  predicts  an  eclipse  from  his 
knowledge  of  the  principles  of  the  science,  rests  his  expectation 
of  the  event  on  facts  which  have  been  previously  ascertained  by 
observation,  no  less  than  if  he  inferred  it,  without  any  reasoning, 
from  his  knowledge  of  a  cycle. 

There  is,  indeed  a  certain  degree  of  practical  skill  which  habits 
of  business  alone  can  give,  and  without  which  the  most  enlightened 
politician  must  always  appear  to  disadvantage  when  he  attempts 
to  carry  his  plans  into  execution.  And,  as  this  skill  is  often  (in 
consequence  of  the  ambiguity  of  language)  denoted  by  the  word 
experience,  while  it  is  seldom  possessed  by  those  men,  who 
have  most  carefully  studied  the  theory  of  legislation,  it  has  been 
very  generally  concluded,  that  politics  is  merely  a  matter  of 
routine,  in  which  philosophy  is  rather  an  obstacle  to  success. 
The  statesman  who  has  been  formed  among  official  details,  is 
compared  to  the  practical  engineer  ;  the  speculative  legislator  to 
the  theoretical  mechanician  who  has  passed  his  life  among  books 
and  diagrams. — In  order  to  ascertain  how  far  this  opinion  is  just, 
it  may  be  of  use  to  compare  the  art  of  legislation  with  those 
practical  applications  of  mechanical  principles,  by  which  the 
opposers  of  political  theories  have  so  often  endeavoured  to 
illustrate  their  reasonings. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  may  be  remarked  that  the  errors  to 
which  we  are  liable,  in  the  use  of  general  mechanical  principles, 
are  owing,  in  most  instances,  to  the  effect  which  habits  of  abstrac- 
tion are  apt  to  have,  in  withdrawing  the  attention  from  those 
applications  of  our  knowledge,  by  which  alone  we  can  learn  to 
correct  the  imperfections  of  theory.  Such  errors,  therefore,  are 
in  a  peculiar  degree,  incident  to  men  who  have  been  led  by 
natural  taste,  or  by  early  habits,  to  prefer  the  speculations  of  the 
closet,  to  the  bustle  of  active  life,  and  to  the  fatigue  of  minute 
and  circumstantial  observation. 

In  politics,  too,  one  species  of  principles  is  often  misapplied 
from  an  inattention  to  circumstances  ;  those  which  are  deduced 
from  a  few  examples  of  particular  governments,  and  which  are 
occasionally   ([uoted    as    universal    political    axioms,    which   every 


566  ENGLISH  PROSE 


wise  legislator  ought  to  assume  as  the  groundwork  of  his  reason- 
ings. But  this  abuse  of  general  principles  should  by  no  means 
be  ascribed,  like  the  absurdities  of  the  speculative  mechanician, 
to  over-refinement,  and  love  of  theory  ;  for  it  arises  from  weak- 
nesses, which  philosophy  alone  can  remedy  ;  an  unenlightened 
veneration  for  maxims  which  are  supposed  to  have  the  sanction  of 
time  in  their  favour,  and  a  passive  acquiescence  in  received  opinions. 

There  is  another  class  of  principles,  from  which  political 
conclusions  have  sometimes  been  deduced  ;  and  which,  notwith- 
standing the  common  prejudice  against  them,  are  a  much  surer 
foundation  for  our  reasonings :  I  allude,  at  present,  to  those 
principles  which  we  obtain  from  an  examination  of  the  human 
constitution,  and  of  the  general  laws  which  regulate  the  course 
of  human  affairs  ;  principles  which  are  certainly  the  result  of  a 
much  more  extensive  induction,  than  any  of  the  inferences  that 
can  be  drawn  from  the  history  of  actual  establishments. 

In  applying,  indeed,  such  principles  to  practice,  it  is  necessary 
(as  well  as  in  mechanics)  to  pay  attention  to  the  peculiarities  of 
the  case  :  but  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  pay  the  same 
scrupulous  attention  to  minute  circumstances,  which  is  essential  in 
the  mechanical  arts,  or  in  the  management  of  private  business. 
There  is  even  a  danger  of  dwelling  too  much  on  details,  and  of 
rendering  the  mind  incapable  of  those  abstract  and  comprehensive 
views  of  human  affairs,  which  can  alone  furnish  the  statesman 
with  fixed  and  certain  maxims  for  the  regulation  of  his  conduct. 

(From  Elements  of  the  PJiilosophy  of  the  Human  Mind.) 


THE   IMAGINATION   IN   SCIENCE 

These  objections  apply  in  common  to  Bacon  and  D'Alembert. 
That  which  follows  has  a  particular  reference  to  a  passage  already 
cited  from  the  latter,  where,  by  some  false  refinements  concerning 
the  nature  and  functions  of  imagination,  he  has  rendered  the 
classification  of  his  predecessor  incomparably  more  indistinct  and 
illogical  than  it  seemed  to  be  before. 

That  all  the  creations,  or  new  combinations  of  imagination, 
imply  the  previous  process  of  decomposition  or  analysis,  is 
abundantly  manifest  ;  and  therefore,  without  departing  from  the 
common   and  popular  use  of  language,   it   may  undoubtedly  be 


DUGALD  STEWART  567 

said,  that  the  faculty  of  abstraction  is  not  less  essential  to  the 
poet,  than  to  the  geometer  and  the  metaphysician.  But  this  is 
not  the  doctrine  of  D'Alembert.  On  the  contrary,  he  affirms  that 
metaphysics  and  geometry  are,  of  all  the  sciences  connected 
with  reason,  those  in  which  imagination  has  the  greatest  share, 
an  assertion  which,  it  will  not  be  disputed,  has  at  first  sight  some- 
what of  the  air  of  a  paradox,  and  which,  on  closer  examination, 
will,  I  apprehend,  be  found  altogether  inconsistent  with  fact.  If 
indeed  D'Alembert  had,  in  this  instance,  used  (as  some  writers 
have  done)  the  word  imagination  as  synonymous  with  invention, 
I  should  not  have  thought  it  worth  while  (at  least  as  far  as  the 
geometer  is  concerned)  to  dispute  his  proposition.  But  that  this 
was  not  the  meaning  annexed  to  it  by  the  author,  appears  from  a 
subsequent  clause,  where  he  tells  us  that  the  most  refined  opera- 
tions of  reason,  consisting  in  the  creation  of  generals  which  do 
not  fall  under  the  cognisance  of  our  senses,  naturally  lead  to  the 
exercise  of  imagination.  His  doctrine,  therefore,  goes  to  the 
identification  of  imagination  with  abstraction  ;  two  faculties  so 
very  different  in  the  direction  which  they  give  to  our  thoughts, 
that  (according  to  his  own  acknowledgment)  the  man  who  is 
habitually  occupied  in  exerting  the  one,  seldom  fails  to  impair 
both  his  capacity  and  his  relish  for  the  exercise  of  the  other. 

This  identification  of  two  faculties,  so  strongly  contrasted  in 
their  characteristical  features,  was  least  of  all  to  be  expected  from 
a  logician,  who  had  previously  limited  the  province  of  imagination 
to  the  imitation  of  material  objects ;  a  limitation,  it  may  be 
remarked  in  passing,  which  is  neither  sanctioned  by  common  use, 
nor  by  just  views  of  the  philosophy  of  the  mind.  Upon  what 
ground  can  it  be  alleged  that  Milton's  portrait  of  Satan's 
intellectual  and  moral  character  was  not  the  offspring  of  the  same 
creative  faculty  which  gave  birth  to  his  garden  of  Eden  ?  After 
such  a  definition,  however,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  so  very 
acute  a  writer  should  have  referred  to  imagination  the  abstractions 
of  the  geometer  and  of  the  metaphysician  ;  and  still  more,  that 
he  should  have  attempted  to  justify  this  reference  by  observing 
that  these  abstractions  do  not  fall  under  the  cognisance  of  the 
senses.  My  own  opinion  is,  that  in  the  composition  of  the  whole 
passage  he  had  a  view  to  the  unexpected  parallel  between  Homer 
and  Archimedes,  with  which  he  meant,  at  the  close,  to  surprise 
his  readers. 

If  the  foregoing  strictures  be  well-founded,  it  seems  to  follow, 


568  ENGLISH  PROSE 


not  only  that  the  attempt  of  Bacon  and  of  D'Alembert  to  classify 
the  sciences  and  arts  according  to  a  logical  division  of  our 
faculties,  is  altogether  unsatisfactory ;  but  that  every  future 
attempt  of  the  same  kind  may  be  expected  to  be  liable  to  similar 
objections.  In  studying,  indeed,  the  theory  of  the  mind,  it  is 
necessary  to  push  our  analysis  as  far  as  the  nature  of  the  subject 
admits  of  it ;  and,  wherever  the  thing  is  possible,  to  examine  its 
constituent  principles  separately  and  apart  from  each  other :  but 
this  consideration  itself,  when  combined  with  what  was  before 
stated  on  the  endless  variety  of  forms  in  which  they  may  be 
blended  together  in  our  various  intellectual  pursuits,  is  sufficient 
to  show  how  ill-adapted  such  an  analysis  must  for  ever  remain  to 
serve  as  the  basis  of  an  encyclopa::dic  distribution. 

The  circumstance  to  which  this  part  of  Bacon's  philosophy  is 
chiefly  indebted  for  its  popularity,  is  the  specious  simplicity  and 
comprehensiveness  of  the  distribution  itself; — not  the  soundness 
of  the  logical  views  by  which  it  was  suggested.  That  all  our 
intellectual  pursuits  may  be  referred  to  one  or  other  of  these  three 
heads,  history,  philosophy,  and  poetry,  may  undoubtedly  be  said 
with  considerable  plausibility  ;  the  word  history  being  understood 
to  comprehend  all  our  knowledge  of  particular  facts  and  particular 
events  ;  the  word  philosophy,  all  the  general  conclusions  or  laws 
inferred  from  these  particulars  by  induction ;  and  the  word 
poetry,  all  the  arts  addressed  to  the  imagination.  Not  that  the 
enumeration,  even  with  the  help  of  this  comment,  can  be  con- 
sidered as  complete,  for  (to  pass  over  entirely  the  other  objections 
already  stated)  under  which  of  these  three  heads  shall  we  arrange 
the  various  branches  of  pure  mathematics  ? 

Are  we  therefore  to  conclude  that  the  magnificent  design,  con- 
ceived by  Bacon,  of  enumerating,  defining,  and  classifying  the 
multifarious  objects  of  human  knowledge  (a  design,  on  the 
successful  accomplishment  of  which  he  himself  believed  that  the 
advancement  of  the  sciences  essentially  depended), — are  we  to 
conclude  that  this  design  was  nothing  more  than  the  abortive  off- 
spring of  a  warm  imagination,  unsusceptible  of  any  useful  applica- 
tion to  enlighten  the  mind,  or  to  accelerate  its  progress  ?  My 
own  idea  is  widely  different.  The  design  was,  in  every  respect, 
worthy  of  the  sublime  genius  by  which  it  was  formed.  Nor  does 
it  follow,  because  the  execution  was  imperfect,  that  the  attempt 
has  been  attended  with  no  advantage.  At  the  period  when 
Bacon  wrote,  it  was  of  much  more  consequence  to  exhil^it   to  the 


DUGALD  STEWART  569 

learned  a  comprehensive  sketch,  than  an  accurate  survey  of  the 
inteUectual  world  : — such  a  sketch  as,  by  pointing  out  to  those 
whose  views  had  been  hitherto  confined  within  the  hmits  of 
particular  regions,  the  relative  positions  and  bearings  of  their 
respective  districts  as  parts  of  one  great  whole,  might  invite  them 
all,  for  the  common  benefit,  to  a  reciprocal  exchange  of  their  local 
riches.  The  societies  or  academies  which,  soon  after,  sprang 
up  in  different  countries  of  Europe,  for  the  avowed  purpose  of 
contributing  to  the  general  mass  of  infomiation,  by  the  collection 
of  insulated  facts,  conjectures,  and  queries,  afford  sufficient  proof, 
that  the  anticipations  of  Bacon  were  not,  in  this  instance,  alto- 
gether chimerical. 

In  examining  the  details  of  Bacon's  survey,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  (more  especially  when  we  reflect  on  the  state  of 
learning  two  hundred  years  ago)  with  the  minuteness  of  his 
information,  as  well  as  with  the  extent  of  his  views  ;  or  to  forbear 
admiring  his  sagacity  in  pointing  out  to  future  adventurers,  the 
unknown  tracts  still  left  to  be  explored  by  human  curiosity.  If 
his  classifications  be  sometimes  artificial  and  arbitrary,  they  have 
at  least  the  merit  of  including,  under  one  head  or  another,  every 
particular  of  importance  ;  and  of  exhibiting  these  particulars  with 
a  degree  of  method  and  of  apparent  connection,  which,  if  it  does 
not  always  satisfy  the  judgment,  never  fails  to  interest  the  fancy, 
and  to  lay  hold  of  the  memory.  Nor  must  it  be  forgotten,  to  the 
glory  of  his  genius,  that  what  he  failed  to  accomplish  remains  to 
this  day  a  desideratum  in  science, — that  the  intellectual  chart 
— delineated  by  him  is,  with  all  its  imperfections,  the  only  one  of 
which  modern  philosophy  has  yet  to  boast  ; — and  that  the  united 
talents  of  D'Alembert  and  of  Diderot,  aided  by  all  the  lights  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  have  been  able  to  add  but  little  to  what 
Bacon  performed. 

(From  Dissertation  on  the  Progress  of  Ethical  PJiilosophy.) 


WILLIAM    BECKFORD 


[William  Beckford  of  Fonthill  (who  must  not  be  confounded  with  contem- 
porary authors  of  the  same  name)  was  the  only  child  by  his  second  wife  of 
Alderman  Beckford,  merchant  and  West  India  planter,  twice  Lord  Mayor  of 
London.  The  birth  of  the  boy,  which  has  been  misstated  by  almost  all 
biographers,  occurred  on  the  ist  October  1760  ;  the  elder  Pitt,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Chatham,  was  one  of  his  sponsors,  and  is  said  to  have  cautioned  the 
future  author  of  Vathek  against  reading  the  Arabian  Nights/  Losing  his 
father  in  1770,  he  was  sent  with  a  tutor  to  Geneva  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
and  afterwards  made  the  grand  tour.  He  married  in  1783,  and  lived  in 
Switzerland  till  1786,  returning  to  England  after  his  wife's  death.  In  March 
1787  he  visited  Portugal,  whence  he  wrote  letters  full  of  graphic  description, 
and  sparkling  with  sarcasm  and  humour.  After  his  return  to  England  he 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  the  pursuits  of  a  virtuoso  and  amateur  architect. 
His  lavish  expense  impoverished  him,  and  he  died  at  Bath  on  the  2nd  May 
1844,  his  princely  inheritance  of  "  a  million  sterling,  and  a  hundred  thousand 
a  year"  having  dwindled  down  to  "  a  beggarly  eighty-thousand  pounds."] 

Although  the  romantic  school  of  fiction  has  had  its  day,  the 
gorgeous,  ahnost  Miltonic  tale  Vathek,  the  admiration  of  Lord 
Byron,  who  preferred  it  to  Rasselas,  still  survives  after  more  than 
a  hundred  years.  The  statement  made  by  its  author  to  Mr. 
Redding,  that  it  was  produced  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  in  one 
sitting  of  three  days  and  two  nights,  is  a  piece  of  imagination  of 
like  character  with  the  work  itself  The  time  taken  to  write  it 
appears  to  have  been  about  three  months,  but  however  long  its 
production  may  have  occupied,  it  stands,  in  a  fashion,  unique  in 
the  language,  and  had  the  author  but  been  visited  with  a  little 
pecuniary  misfortune,  it  might  have  proved  the  precursor  to  a 
delightful  series  of  imaginative  stories.  But  domestic  bereave- 
ment and  the  deceitfulness  of  riches  unhinged  the  mind  of  Beck- 
ford. His  letters  from  Portugal  evince  that  contempt  for  the 
poor,  and  general  cynicism  which,  when  he  was  no  longer  able  to 
assimilate   rational    gratifications,    degenerated    into   misanthropy 


572  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  absolute  egotism.  Of  all  sensuous  enjoyments,  that  of  music 
appears  to  have  been  that  which  raised  him  most  out  of  himself. 
Amidst  the  sarcastic  utterances  evoked  by  the  degrading  super- 
stition prevailing  in  Portugal  he  writes: — "This  very  morning, 
to  my  shame  be  it  recorded,  1  remained  hour  after  hour  in  my 
newly  arranged  pavilion,  without  reading  a  word,  writing  a  line, 
or  entering'  into  any  conversation.  All  my  faculties  were  absorbed 
by  the  harmony  of  the  wind  instruments,  stationed  at  a  distance 
in  a  thicket  of  orange  and  bay  trees.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that 
I  tried  several  times  to  retire  out  of  the  sound — 1  was  as  often 
drawn  back  as  I  attempted  to  snatch  myself  away."  On  another 
occasion  we  find  that  Jomelli's  mass  for  the  dead  melted  him  to 
tears. 

Beckford's  first  effort.  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Painters,  a 
satirical  work,  written  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  it  is  said,  to  mystify 
the  family  housekeeper,  was  followed  by  other  youthful  effusions, 
and  in  1783  he  published  a  quarto  volume  entitled  Dreams, 
Waki)ii^  Thoughts,  and  Incidents,  the  edition  consisting  of  five 
hundred  copies,  but,  following  the  mistaken  advice  of  friends, 
he  suppressed  the  whole  except  six  copies,  and  afterwards  brought 
out  an  expurgated  edition,  the  lacuna;  in  which  were  for  the 
first  time  filled  up  by  Mr.  G.  T.  Bettany  in  the  volume  of  the 
Minema  Library,  edited  by  him.  Vathek,  the  book  by  which 
he  is  best  known,  written  in  French  at  an  early  age,  was  pirated 
by  a  clergyman  to  whom  the  MS.  had  been  entrusted,  and  the 
first  authorised  edition  was  published  in  French  at  Paris  and 
Lausanne  in  1787.  The  Letters  from  Portugal  and  Spain 
remained  unpublished  for  nearly  fifty  years  after  they  were 
written.  After  his  final  return  to  England  he  ceased  to  write 
altogether,  but  such  materials  for  a  biography  as  he  chose  to 
communicate  or  invent  were  given  to  Mr.  Cyrus  Redding  in  1835. 

W.  J.  Garnett. 


A  DREAM   IN   KENT 

All  through  Kent  did  I  doze  as  usual  ;  now  and  then  I  opened 
my  eyes  to  take  in  an  idea  or  two  of  the  green,  woody  country 
through  which  I  was  passing ;  then  closed  them  again  ;  trans- 
ported myself  back  to  my  native  hills  ;  thought  I  led  a  choir  of 
those  I  loved  best  through  their  shades  ;  and  was  happy  in  the 
arms  of  illusion.  The  sun  set  before  I  recovered  my  senses 
enough  to  discover  plainly  the  variegated  slopes  near  Canterbury, 
waving  with  slender  birch  trees,  and  gilt  with  a  profusion  of 
broom.  I  thought  myself  still  in  my  beloved  solitude,  but  missed 
the  companions  of  my  slumbers.  Where  are  they  ?  Behind  yon 
blue  hills,  perhaps,  or  t'other  side  of  that  thick  forest.  My  fancy 
was  travelling  after  these  deserters,  till  we  reached  the  town  ;  vile 
enough  o'  conscience,  and  fit  only  to  be  passed  in  one's  sleep. 
The  moment  after  I  got  out  of  the  carriage,  brought  me  to  the 
cathedral  ;  an  old  haunt  of  mine.  I  had  always  venerated  its 
lofty  pillars,  dim  aisles,  and  mysterious  arches.  Last  night  they 
were  more  solemn  than  ever,  and  echoed  no  other  sound  than 
my  steps.  I  strayed  about  the  choir  and  chapels,  till  they  grew 
so  dark  and  dismal,  that  I  was  half  incUned  to  be  frightened  ; 
looked  over  my  shoulder ;  thought  of  spectres  that  have  an 
awkward  trick  of  syllabling  men's  names  in  dreary  places  ;  and 
fancied  a  sepulchral  voice  exclaiming :  "  Worship  my  toe  at 
Ghent  ;  my  ribs  at  Florence  ;  my  skull  at  Bologna,  Siena,  and 
Rome.  Beware  how  you  neglect  this  order  ;  for  my  bones,  as 
well  as  my  spirit,  have  the  miraculous  property  of  being  here, 
there,  and  everywhere."  These  injunctions,  you  may  suppose, 
were  received  in  a  becoming  manner,  and  noted  all  down  in  my 
pocket-book  by  inspiration  (for  I  could  not  see),  and  hurrying 
into  the  open  air,  I  was  whirled  away  in  the  dusk  to  Margate. 
Don't  ask  what  were  my  dreams  thither  : — nothing  but  horrors, 
deep- vaulted   tombs,   and   pale,   though    lovely  figures,   extended 


574  ENGLISH  rROSE 


upon  them  ;  shrill  blasts  that  sung  in  my  ears,  and  filled  me  with 
sadness,  and  the  recollection  of  happy  hours,  fleeting  away, 
perhaps  for  ever !  I  was  not  sorry,  when  the  bustle  of  our 
coming  in  dispelled  these  phantoms.  The  change,  however, 
in  point  of  scenery  was  not  calculated  to  dissipate  my  gloom  ; 
for  the  first  object  in  this  world  that  presented  itself  was  a  vast 
expanse  of  sea,  just  visible  by  the  gleamings  of  the  moon,  bathed 
in  watery  clouds  ;  a  chill  air  ruffled  the  waves.  I  went  to  shiver 
a  few  melancholy  moments  on  the  shore.  How  often  did  I  try 
to  wish  away  the  reality  of  my  separation  from  those  I  love,  and 
attempt  to  persuade  myself  it  was  but  a  dream  ! 

(From  Dreams  and  Waking  Thoughts.^ 


THE  COURT  OF  THE  QUEEN  OF  PORTUGAL 

I  WAS  hardly  up  before  the  Grand  Prior  and  Mr.  Street  were 
announced  ;  the  latter  abusing  kings,  queens,  and  princes  with 
all  his  might,  and  roaring  after  liberty  and  independence  ;  the 
former  complaining  of  fogs  and  damps. 

As  soon  as  the  advocate  for  republicanism  had  taken  his 
departure,  we  went  by  appointment  to  the  archbishop  confessor's, 
— and  were  immediately  admitted  into  his  sanctum  satictorum, 
a  snug  apartment  communicating  by  a  winding  staircase  with 
that  of  the  Queen,  and  hung  with  bright,  lively  tapestry.  A  lay 
brother,  fat,  round,  bufifoonical,  and  to  the  full  as  coarse  and 
vulgar  as  any  carter  or  muleteer  in  Christendom,  entertained  us 
with  some  very  amusing,  though  not  the  most  decent,  palace 
stories,  till  his  patron  came  forth. 

Those  who  expect  to  see  the  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Portugal  a 
doleful,  meagre  figure,  with  eyes  of  reproof  and  malediction, 
would  be  disappointed.  A  pleasanter  or  more  honest  countenance 
than  that  kind  Heaven  has  blessed  him  with  one  has  seldom  the 
pleasure  of  looking  upon.  He  received  me  in  the  most  open, 
cordial  manner,  and  I  have  reason  to  think  I  am  in  mighty 
favour. 

We  talked  about  archbishops  in  England  being  married. 
"  Pray,"  said  the  prelate,  "  are  not  your  archbishops  strange 
fellows  1  consecrated  in  ale-houses,  and  good  bottle  companions  ? 
I  have  been  told  that  mad-cap  Lord  Tyrawley  was  an  archbishop 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD  575 

at  home."  You  may  imagine  how  much  I  laughed  at  this  incon- 
ceivable nonsense  ;  and  though  I  cannot  say,  speaking  of  his 
right  reverence,  that  "  truths  divine  came  mended  from  his 
tongue,"  it  may  be  allowed,  that  nonsense  itself  became  more 
conspicuously  nonsensical,  flowing  from  so  revered  a  source. 

Whilst  we  sat  in  the  windows  of  the  saloon,  listening  to  a 
band  of  regimental  music,  we  saw  Joao  Antonio  de  Castro,  the 
ingenious  mechanician,  who  invented  the  present  method  of 
lighting  Lisbon,  two  or  three  solemn  Dominicans,  and  a  famous 
court  fool  in  a  tawdry  gala  suit,  bedizened  with  mock  orders, 
coming  up  the  steps  which  lead  to  the  great  audience  chamber, 
all  together.  "  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  lay  brother,  who  is  a  shrewd, 
comical  fellow,  "  behold  a  true  picture  of  our  customers  !  Three 
sorts  of  persons  find  their  way  most  readily  into  this  palace  ;  men 
of  superior  abilities,  buffoons,  and  saints  ;  the  first  soon  lose  what 
cleverness  they  possessed,  the  saints  become  martyrs,  and  the 
buffoons  alone  prosper. 

To  all  this  the  archbishop  gave  his  assent  by  a  very  significant 
nod  of  the  head,  and  being,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  in  a  most 
gracious,  communicative  disposition,  would  not  permit  me  to  go 
away,  when  I  rose  to  take  leave  of  him. 

*'  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  don't  think  of  quitting  me  yet  awhile. 
Let  us  repair  to  the  Hall  of  Swans,  where  all  the  court  are 
waiting  for  me,  and  pray  tell  me  then  what  you  think  of  our  great 
fidalgos." 

Taking  me  by  the  tips  of  the  fingers,  he  led  me  along  through 
a  number  of  shady  rooms  and  dark  passages  to  a  private  door, 
which  opened  from  the  Queen's  presence-chamber,  into  a  vast 
saloon,  crowded,  I  really  believe,  by  half  the  dignitaries  of  the 
kingdom  :  here  were  bishops,  heads  of  orders,  secretaries  of 
state,  generals,  lords  of  the  bed-chamber,  and  courtiers  of  all 
denominations,  as  fine  and  as  conspicuous  as  embroidered 
uniforms,  stars,  crosses,  and  gold  keys  could  make  them. 

The  astonishment  of  this  group  at  our  sudden  apparition  was 
truly  laughable,  and,  indeed,  no  wonder ;  we  must  have  appeared 
on  the  point  of  beginning  a  minuet — the  portly  archbishop  in  his 
monastic  flowing  drapery,  spreading  himself  out  like  a  turkey  in 
full  pride,  and  myself  bowing  and  advancing  in  a  sort  of  "  pas- 
grave,"  blinking  all  the  while  like  an  owl  in  sunshine,  thanks  to 
my  rapid  transition  from  darkness  to  the  most  glaring  daylight. 

Down  went  half  the  party  upon  their  knees,  some  with  petitions 


576  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  some  with  memorials  ;  those  begging  for  places  and  promo- 
tions, and  these  for  benedictions,  of  which  my  revered  conductor 
was  by  no  means  prodigal.  He  seemed  to  treat  all  these  eager 
demonstrations  of  fawning  servility  with  the  most  contemptuous 
composure,  and  pushing  through  the  crowd  which  divided 
respectfully  to  give  us  passage,  beckoned  the  Viscount  Ponte  de 
Lima,  the  Marquis  of  Lavradio,  the  Count  d'Obidos,  and  two  or 
three  of  the  lords  in  waiting,  into  a  mean  little  room,  not  above 
twenty  by  fourteen. 

After  a  deal  of  adulatory  complimentation  in  a  most  subdued 
tone  from  the  circle  of  courtiers,  for  which  they  got  nothing  in 
return  but  rebuffs  and  grunting,  the  archbishop  drew  his  chair 
close  to  mine,  and  said  with  a  very  distinct  and  audible  pro- 
nunciation, "  My  dear  Englishman,  these  are  all  a  parcel  of 
flattering  scoundrels  ;  do  not  believe  one  word  they  say  to  you. 
Though  they  glitter  like  gold,  mud  is  not  meaner — I  know  them 
well.  Here,"  continued  he,  holding  up  the  flap  of  my  coat,  "  is  a 
proof  of  English  prudence ;  this  little  button  to  secure  the 
pocket  is  a  precious  contrivance,  especially  in  grand  company  ; 
do  not  leave  it  off,  or  adopt  any  of  our  fashions,  or  you  will 
repent  it." 

This  sally  of  wit  was  received  with  the  most  resigned  com- 
placency by  those  who  had  inspired  it,  and,  staring  with  all  my 
eyes,  and  listening  with  all  my  ears,  I  could  hardly  credit  either 
upon  seeing  the  most  complaisant  gesticulations,  and  hearing  the 
most  abject  protestations  of  devoted  attachment  to  his  right 
reverence's  sacred  person  from  all  the  company. 

(From  Letters  from  Portugal.) 


WILLIAM    COBBETT 


[William  Cobbett  was  the  son  of  a  small  farmer  of  Farnham,  Surrey,  and 
was  born  there  in  1762.  In  1784  he  enlisted  in  the  54th  regiment,  spent  a  year 
at  Chatham,  and  was  sent  with  his  regiment  to  Nova  Scotia,  rising  to  the  rank 
of  sergeant-major.  He  quitted  the  army  in  1791,  and  married  in  February 
1792.  At  this  time  he  brought  a  charge  against  some  of  his  officers,  but  instead 
of  pressing  it,  went  from  England  to  France,  and  thence  to  Philadelphia,  where 
he  played  the  part  of  a  vigorous  champion  of  England,  writing  Observations  on 
Priestley's  E?iiigration  (1794),  A  Bone  to  Gnaw  for  the  Democrats,  and  the 
monthly  paper  Peter  Porcupine  (1795).  Persecution  drove  him  back  to  England 
(1800),  and  he  was  at  first  courted  by  Pitt's  government.  His  first  publications 
after  his  return,  including  the  early  numbers  of  the  famous  Political  Register 
(begun  1802),  were  still  "loyal."  But  soon  after  the  renewal  of  the  war  his 
paper  became  (and  remained)  strongly  radical,  though  never  republican.  He 
was  prosecuted  for  strictures  on  flogging  in  the  army  (1810),  and  imprisoned 
till  18 1 2.  The  Register  continued  to  appear,  edited  from  prison.  When 
Sidmouth's  Si.\  Acts  made  agitation  dangerous,  Cobbett  withdrew  to  America, 
editing  the  Register  in  exile  (1817-19).  In  1819  he  reappeared,  bringing  with 
him  the  bones  of  Paine,  as  the  great  assailant  of  paper  money.  Thencefor- 
ward he  plied  his  pen  unmolested.  Returned  for  Oldham  in  1832,  he  sat  in 
Parliament,  though  hardly  a  power  there,  till  his  death  in  June  1835.] 

Cobbett  was,  like  Defoe,  a  born  pamphleteer.  Swift  may  have 
been  his  model  in  style,  as  he  himself  hints.  The  habit  of  writing 
in  short  clear  sentences  mainly  of  Saxon  diction  was  common  to 
both.  But  Cobbett's  style  was  in  other  respects  entirely  his  own. 
His  words  flowed  as  easily  as  his  thoughts.  His  anecdotes,  and 
especially  his  epithets,  clung  to  the  memory.  He  made  no 
pretence  of  profound  learning.  He  dealt  out  facts  and  arguments 
closely  within  the  range  of  the  ideas  and  experience  of  ordinary 
Englishmen  ;  and  he  was  a  "popular  writer"  in  the  sense  of  one 
who  wrote  what  all  could  understand.  The  naivete  of  his 
egotism  disarmed  his  critics.  He  rivalled  Junius  in  the  rich 
discursiveness  of  his  vituperation.  He  had  all  the  infallibility  of 
a  newspaper  editor,  without  wearing  the  usual  mask  of  one.  A 
VOL.  IV  2  P 


578  ENGLISH  PROSE 


great  many  of  the  \iitues  which  he  claimed  for  himself  seem 
really  to  have  belonged  to  him.  He  is  the  model  of  a  good 
husband ;  he  never  keeps  his  wife  waiting  ;  he  goes  home  at  once 
when  a  storm  comes  on  because  she  is  afraid  of  thunder  ;  his 
attention  to  her  in  small  things  and  great  is  unfailing.  A  political 
agitator  in  season  and  out  of  season,  he  has  all  the  virtues  of  a 
respectable  citizen.  He  has  improved  every  opportunity  ;  he 
has  raised  himself  by  pure  patience,  sobriety,  and  energy  to  a 
place  of  power  without  office,  and  to  honourable  recognition  as 
a  writer,  with  no  teacher  but  himself.  He  has  taught  himself 
grammar,  gardening,  arithmetic,  forestry,  and  farming.  He 
loves  the  country,  and  writes  charming  descriptions  of  rural 
scenes  and  rural  life.  He  brings  back  from  America  not  only 
the  bones  of  Paine,  but  the  locust  tree  and  Indian  corn.  He 
has  taught  his  countrymen  how  to  plait  straw  hats.  He  rises 
early.  He  is  a  lover  of  riding  and  coursing.  He  knows  what 
to  eat,  drink,  and  avoid.  He  praises  beer  and  detests  tea, 
himself  seldom  drinking  either,  and  smoking  little,  unless  to  gain 
other  people's  confidence.  He  cares  little  for  music,  and  rarely 
quotes  a  poet.  Hear  him  discourse  on  politics,  you  would  believe 
it  had  been  all  his  study.  He  is  happy  in  knowing  the  exact 
causes  of  the  distress  of  the  country,  and  will  be  broiled  on  a 
gridiron  if  he  is  wrong.  He  knows  (from  Paine)  that  taxation 
and  paper  money  are  the  root  of  untold  evils.  He  abhors  place- 
hunters,  boroughmongers,  stock-jobbers,  political  economists, 
Scotchmen,  Quakers,  and  Jews.  He  is  earnest  for  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  Catholics,  but  frowns  on  the  repeal  of  the  Test 
Act.  He  praises  the  Mediaeval  Church,  and  hates  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  the  "  wife-killer,"  as  cordially  as  "  Old  George 
Rose  "  and  Ellenborough.  Yet  he  dissuades  the  Luddites  from 
breaking  machines,  has  great  respect  for  the  rights  of  property, 
and  regards  old  England  as,  after  all,  the  best  of  countries.  If 
not  on  theology,  he  will  at  least  deliver  himself  on  morality  ;  and 
he  prints  "  sermons,"  if  not  on  the  cardinal  virtues,  at  least  on 
the  cardinal  vices.  He  is  a  fairly  sound  churchman,  little  as  it 
appears  from  many  of  his  writings.  Like  other  men  who  have  been 
self-taught  and  self-made,  he  is  most  certain  of  his  infallibility 
where  he  is  most  fallible.  He  made  many  mistakes  in  his  judg- 
ment of  events,  policies,  and  persons;  and  in  this  respect  he  learned 
little  wisdom  with  years.  His  proposal  in  the  House  of  Commons 
that  Peel  should  cease  to  be  a  Privy  Councillor  because  of  his 


WILLIAM  COBBETT  579 

currency  measure  of  i  8 1 9,  came  ill  from  a  man  whose  prophecies 
Peel  had  helped  to  falsify.  His  epithets  are  often  undeserved  ; 
and  his  arguments  often  seem  to  be  convincing  only  because 
their  language  is  clear.  But  to  have  written  every  week  for 
thirty  years  and  never  wanted  readers  was  a  feat  in  itself ;  and  it 
is  an  additional  glory  that,  while  delighting  and  exasperating  his 
contemporaries,  he  wrote  much  that  posterity  will  not  willingly 
let  die. 

J.    BONAR. 


WHY   LEAVE   EN(;LAND  ? 

The  Giffords,  the  Southeys,  the  Walters,  the  Stuarts,  the 
Stoddarts,  and  all  the  hireling  crew,  who  were  unable  to  answer 
with  the  pen,  now  rush  at  me  with  their  drawn  knife,  and 
exclaim,  "  write  on  ! "  To  use  the  words  of  the  Westminster 
Address,  they  shake  the  halter  in  my  face,  and  rattle  in  my  ears 
the  keys  of  the  dungeon,  and  then  they  exclaim  with  a  malignant 
grin  :  "  Why  do  you  not  continue  to  write  on,  you  coward  ? "  A 
few  years  ago,  being  at  Barnet  fair,  I  saw  a  battle  going  on, 
arising  out  of  some  sudden  quarrel,  between  a  butcher  and  the 
servant  of  a  west-country  grazier.  The  butcher,  though  vastly 
the  superior  in  point  of  size,  finding  that  he  was  getting  the  worst 
of  it,  recoiled  a  step  or  two,  and  drew  out  his  knife.  Upon  the 
sight  of  this  weapon,  the  grazier  turned  about  and  ran  off  till  he 
came  up  to  a  Scotchman  who  was  guarding  his  herd,  and  out  of 
whose  hand  the  former  snatched  a  good  ash  stick  about  four  feet 
long.  Having  thus  got  what  he  called  a  long  arm,  he  returned 
to  the  combat,  and,  in  a  very  short  time,  he  gave  the  butcher  a 
blow  upon  the  wrist  which  brought  his  knife  to  the  ground.  The 
grazier  then  fell  to  work  with  his  stick  in  such  a  style  as  I  never 
before  witnessed.  The  butcher  fell  down  and  roared  and  kicked, 
but  he  seemed  only  to  change  his  position  in  order  to  insure  to 
every  part  of  his  carcase  a  due  share  of  the  penalty  of  his  base- 
ness. After  the  grazier  had  apparently  tired  himself,  he  was 
coming  away,  when,  happening  to  cast  his  eye  upon  the  knife, 
he  ran  back  and  renewed  the  basting,  exclaiming  every  now  and 
then,  as  he  caught  his  breath  :  "  Dra  thy  knife,  wo't ! "  He 
came  away  a  second  time,  and  a  second  time  returned  and  set 
on  upon  the  caitiff  again  ;  and  this  he  repeated  several  times, 
exclaiming  always  when  he  recommenced  the  drubbing  :  "  Dra 
thy  knife,  wo't  ! "  Till  at  last  the  butcher  was  so  bruised  that 
he  was  actually  unable  to  stand  or  even  to  get  up  ;  and  yet  such, 


WILLIAM  COBBETT  581 


amongst  Englishmen,  is  the  abhorrence  of  foul  fighting,  that  not 
a  soul  attempted  to  interfere,  and  nobody  seemed  to  pity  a  man 
thus  unmercifully  beaten. 

It  is  my  intention  to  imitate  the  conduct  of  this  Grazier  ;  to 
resort  to  a  long  arm,  and  to  combat  corruption,  while  I  keep 
myself  out  of  the  reach  of  her  knife.  Nobody  called  the  Grazier 
a  coward,  because  he  did  not  stay  to  oppose  his  fists  to  a  pointed 
and  cutting  instrument.  My  choice,  as  I  said  before  (leaving  all 
considerations  of  personal  safety  out  of  the  question)  lies  between 
silence  and  retreat.  If  I  remain  here,  all  other  means  will  be 
first  used  to  reduce  me  to  silence  ;  and,  if  all  those  means  fail, 
then  will  come  the  dungeon.  Therefore,  that  I  may  still  be  able 
to  write,  and  to  write  with  freedom,  too,  I  shall  write,  if  I  live, 
from  America  ;  and,  my  readers  may  depend  on  it,  that  it  will 
not  be  more  than  four  months  from  the  date  of  this  address, 
before  the  publication  of  the  weekly  Pamphlet  will  be  resumed 
in  London,  and  will  be  continued  very  nearly  as  regularly  as  it 
has  been  for  years  past. 

(From  Taking  Leave  of  ids  CoiDifyyiiicn) 


THE  CROWN   GRUB 

I  WAS  once  going  by  the  house  of  a  Quaker  in  Long  Island,  and 
drove  up  to  it  for  the  purpose  of  getting  entertainment  for  man 
and  horses.  After  introductory  matter,  I  said,  "  How  is  your 
corn  ? "  which  is  the  common  question  in  that  country.  He 
shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  Now,  William  Cobbett,  can  thee, 
that  knows  so  many  things,  tell  how  to  destroy  the  Crowji  grub  ? " 
"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  that  devil  has  mastered  me  all  my  lifetime. 
Your  only  remedy  is  patience,  or  absolutely  going  with  a  candle 
and  lantern,  and  watching  every  plant  all  night  long."  After 
breakfast  he  took  me  into  his  field,  which  was  in  fact  an  orchard, 
with  trees  widely  planted  in  it,  and  which,  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  country,  had  been  ploughed  up  at  the  fourth  or 
fifth  year,  for  the  double  purpose  of  benefiting  the  trees  and 
obtaining  a  crop  of  corn.  It  was  fine  land,  some  of  the  best  in 
the  whole  island,  on  the  side  of  one  of  the  little  inlets  from  the 
east  river.  The  sight  was  truly  distressing.  The  cursed  creatures 
(saving  their  right  of  nature)  had  cut  off  the  corn,  when  it  was 
two   inches  and   a   half  or    three    inches  high,   hill   after  hill,   in 


5S2  ENGLISH  PROSE 


many  places  for  ten  hills  together.  The  owner  had  been  preparing 
himself  for  beating  all  his  neighbours  in  this  prime  crop,  and  he 
saw  all  his  hopes  blasted  from  this  miserable  cause.  I  went  and 
raked  round  some  of  the  hills  with  my  finger,  and  we  found  a 
dozen  grubs  together  in  some  places,  lying  under  the  clods, 
contemplating  the  pleasures  of  the  feast  of  the  next  evening  or 
night.  In  a  country  where  numerous  hands  could  have  been 
obtained  at  a  moderate  expense,  the  crop  might  have  been  saved 
to  a  considerable  extent.  Such  means  were  not  at  command 
here  ;  and  when  I  saw  my  friend  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  I  found 
that  he  had  not  had  five  bushels  upon  an  acre,  where  he  ought 
to  have  had  fifty  at  least. 


(From  Cobhetfs  Corn.) 


THE   KING'S  ENGLISH 

And,  though  a  man  may  possess  great  knowledge  as  a  states- 
man and  legislator  without  being  able  to  perform  what  this 
poet  would  call  writing  well  ;  yet  surely  we  have  a  right  to 
expect  in  a  minister  the  capacity  of  being  able  to  write  gram- 
matically ;  the  capacity  of  putting  his  own  meaning  clearly 
down  upon  paper.  But,  in  the  composing  of  a  king's  speech, 
it  is  not  one  man,  but  nine  men,  whose  judgement  and  practical 
talent  are  employed.  A  king's  speech  is,  too,  a  very  short 
piece  of  writing.  The  topics  are  all  distinct.  Very  little  is 
said  upon  each.  There  is  no  reasoning.  It  is  all  plain  matter 
of  fact,  or  of  simple  observation.  The  thing  is  done  with  all 
the  advantages  of  abundant  time  for  examination  and  re- 
examination. Each  of  the  ministers  has  a  copy  of  the  speech 
to  read,  to  examine,  and  to  observe  upon  ;  and,  when  no  one 
has  anything  left  to  suggest  in  the  way  of  alteration  or  improve- 
ment, the  speech  is  agreed  to,  and  put  into  the  mouth  of  the 
king. 

Surely,  therefore,  if  in  any  human  effort,  perfection  can  be 
expected,  we  have  a  right  to  expect  it  in  a  king's  speech.  You 
shall  now  see,  then,  what  pretty  stuff  is  put  together,  and 
delivered  to  the  Parliament,  under  the  name  of  king's  speeches. 

The  speech  which  I  am  about  to  examine,  is  indeed,  a 
speech  of  the  Regent  ;  but  I  might  take  any  other  of  these 
speeches.      I  choose  this   particular  speech,  because   the   subjects 


WILLIAM  COBBETT  583 

of  it  are  familiar  in  America  as  well  as  in  England.  It  was 
spoken  on  the  8th  of  November,  18 14.  I  shall  take  a  sentence 
at  a  time,  in  order  to  avoid  confusion. 

"  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  it  is  with  deep  regret  that  I  am 
again  obliged  to  announce  the  continuance  of  His  Majesty's 
lamented  indisposition." 

Even  in  this  short  sentence  there  is  something  equivocal  ; 
for  it  may  be  that  the  Prince's  regret  arises  from  his  being 
obliged  to  announce,  and  not  from  the  thing  announced.  If 
he  had  said  :  "  With  deep  regret  I  announce,"  or,  "  I  announce 
with  deep  regret,"  there  would  have  been  nothing  equivocal. 
And  in  a  composition  like  this,  all  ought  to  be  as  clear  as  the 
pebbled  brook. 

"  It  would  have  given  mc  great  satisfaction  to  have  been 
enabled  to  communicate  to  you  the  termination  of  the  war 
between  this  country  and  the  United  States  of  America." 

The  double  compound  times  of  the  verbs,  in  the  first  part 
of  the  sentence,  make  the  words  mean,  that  it  would,  before 
the  prince  came  to  the  house,  have  given  him  great  satisfaction 
to  be  enabled  to  communicate  ;  whereas,  he  meant,  "  it  would 
now,  have  given  me  great  satisfaction  to  be  enabled  to  com- 
municate." In  the  latter  part  of  the  sentence  we  have  a  little 
nonsense.  What  does  termination  mean  ?  It  means,  in  this 
case,  end,  or  conclusion  ;  and,  thus,  the  prince  wished  to  com- 
municate an  end  to  the  wise  men,  by  whom  he  was  surrounded  1 
To  communicate  is  to  impart  to  another  anything  that  we  have 
in  our  possession  or  within  our  power.  And  so,  the  prince 
wished  to  impart  the  end  to  the  noble  lords  and  honourable 
gentlemen.  He  might  wish  to  impart,  or  communicate  the  news, 
or  the  intelligence  of  the  end  ;  but  ht  could  not  communicate 
the  end  itself.  What  should  we  say,  if  some  one  were  to  tell 
us,  that  an  officer  had  arrived,  and  brought  home  the  termination 
of  a  battle,  and  carried  it  to  Carlton  House,  and  communicated 
it  to  the  prince  ?  We  should  laugh  at  our  informant's  ignorance 
of  grammar,  though  we  should  understand  what  he  meant. 
And  shall  we  then  be  so  partial  and  so  unjust  as  to  reverence 
in  king's  councillors  that  which  we  should  laugh  at  in  one  of 
our  neighbours  ?  To  act  thus  would  be,  my  dear  son,  a  base 
abandonment  of  our  reason,  which  is,  to  use  the  words  of  Dr. 
Watts,  the  common  gift  of  God  to  man. 

(l*"i-()m  E?igJisJi  Crain/iiar.) 


584  ENGLISH  PROSE 


EARLY   RISING 

What  need  had  we  of  schools  ?  What  need  of  teachers  ?  W^hat 
need  of  scolding  and  force,  to  induce  children  to  read,  write,  and 
love  books  ?  What  need  of  cards,  dice,  or  of  any  games,  to  "kill 
time "  ;  but,  in  fact,  to  implant  in  the  infant  heart  a  love  of 
gaming,  one  of  the  most  destructive  of  all  human  vices  ?  We 
did  not  want  to  "kill  time"  ;  we  were  always  busy,  wet  weather 
or  dry  weather,  winter  or  summer.  There  was  no  force,  in  any 
case  ;  no  command ;  no  authority  ;  none  of  these  was  ever 
wanted.  To  teach  the  children  the  habit  of  early  rising  was  a 
great  object ;  and  every  one  knows  how  young  people  cling  to 
their  beds,  and  how  loath  they  are  to  go  to  those  beds.  This 
was  a  capital  matter  ;  because  here  were  industry  and  health 
both  at  stake.  Yet  I  avoided  command  even  here  ;  and  merely 
offered  a  reward.  The  child  that  was  downstairs  first,  was  called 
the  lark  for  that  day ;  and,  further,  sat  at  my  right  hand  at 
dinner.  They  soon  discovered  that  to  rise  early  they  must  go 
to  bed  early,  and  thus  was  this  most  important  object  secured, 
with  regard  to  girls  as  well  as  boys.  Nothing  is  more  incon- 
venient and,  indeed,  more  disgusting,  than  to  have  to  do  with 
girls  or  young  women  who  lounge  in  bed  :  "  A  little  more  sleep, 
a  little  more  slumber,  a  little  more  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep." 
Solomon  knew  them  well :  he  had,  I  dare  say,  seen  the  breakfast 
cooling,  carriages  and  horses  and  servants  waiting,  the  sun  burning 
on,  the  day  wasting,  the  night  growing  dark  too  early,  appoint- 
ments broken,  and  the  objects  of  journeys  defeated  ;  and  all  this 
from  the  lolloping  in  bed  of  persons  who  ought  to  have  risen 
with  the  sun.  No  beauty,  no  modesty,  no  accomplishments,  are 
a  compensation  for  the  effects  of  laziness  in  women  ;  and,  of  all 
the  proofs  of  laziness,  none  is  so  unequivocal  as  that  of  lying  late 
in  bed.  Love  makes  men  overlook  this  vice  (for  it  is  a  vice), 
for  awhile  ;  but  this  does  not  last  for  life.  Besides,  health 
demands  early  rising ;  the  management  of  a  house  imperiously 
demands  it :  but  health,  that  most  precious  possession,  without 
which  there  is  nothing  else  worth  possessing,  demands  it  too. 
The  morning  air  is  the  most  wholesome  and  strengthening  :  even 
in  crowded  cities,  men  might  do  pretty  well  with  the  aid  of  (he 
morning  air ;  but,  how  are  they  to  rise  early,  if  they  go  to  bed 
late  ?  (From  Advice  to  Young  Men.) 


WILLIAM  COBBETT  585 


AIR  AND   EXERCISE 

During  the  whole  of  this  ride,  I  have  very  rarely  been  abed 
after  daylight  ;  I  have  drunk  neither  wine  nor  spirits.  I  have 
eaten  no  vegetables,  and  only  a  very  moderate  quantity  of  meat ; 
and  it  may  be  useful  to  my  readers  to  know,  that  the  riding  of 
twenty  miles  was  not  so  fatiguing  to  me  at  the  end  of  my  tour, 
as  the  riding  of  ten  miles  was,  at  the  beginning  of  it.  Some  ill- 
natured  fools  will  call  this  egotism.  Why  is  it  egotism  ?  Getting 
upon  a  good  strong  horse,  and  riding  about  the  country,  has  no 
merit  in  it  ;  there  is  no  conjuration  in  it  ;  it  recjuires  neither 
talents  nor  virtues  of  any  sort  ;  but  health  is  a  very  valuable 
thing  ;  and,  when  a  man  has  had  the  experience  which  I  have 
had,  in  this  instance,  it  is  his  duty  to  state  to  the  world,  and  to 
his  own  countrymen  and  neighbours  in  particular,  the  happy 
effects  of  early  rising,  sobriety,  abstinence,  and  a  resolution  to  be 
active.  It  is  his  duty  to  do  this  ;  and  it  becomes  imperatively 
his  duty,  when  he  has  seen,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  so  many 
men,  so  many  men  of  excellent  hearts  and  of  good  talents, 
rendered  prematurely  old,  cut  off  ten  or  twenty  years  before  their 
time,  by  a  want  of  that  early  rising,  sobriety,  abstinence,  and 
activity,  from  which  he  himself  has  derived  so  much  benefit,  and 
such  inexpressible  pleasure.  During  this  ride,  I  have  been 
several  times  wet  to  the  skin.  At  some  times  of  my  life,  after 
having  indulged  for  a  long  while  in  coddling  myself  up  in  the 
house,  these  soakings  would  have  frightened  me  half  out  of  my 
senses  ;  but  I  care  very  little  about  them  :  I  avoid  getting  wet  if 
I  can  ;  but  it  is  very  seldom  that  rain,  come  when  it  would,  has 
prevented  me  from  performing  the  day's  journey  that  I  had  laid 
out  beforehand.  And  this  is  a  very  good  rule  :  stick  to  your 
intention,  whether  it  be  attended  with  inconveniences  or  not  ;  to 
look  upon  yourself  as  bound  to  do  it.  In  the  whole  of  this  ride, 
I  have  met  with  no  one  untoward  circumstance,  properly  so 
called  except  the  wounding  of  the  back  of  my  horse,  which 
grieved  me  much  more  on  his  account  than  on  my  own. 

(From  Riirdl  Rii/es.) 


JAMES    MACKINTOSH 


[James  Mackintosh,  born  near  Inverness  (1765),  son  of  a  Highland 
Captain  who  served  in  the  Seven  Years'  War,  educated  at  Fortrose  and 
at  Aberdeen  University  (1780-4),  was  a  precocious  child,  and  in  boyhood 
thought  poetic.  In  1784  he  went  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  studied  medicine, 
harangued  the  Speculative  Society  with  Enimett  and  others,  and  got  his 
diploma  as  doctor.  He  went  to  London  in  1788,  where  he  married,  became  a 
lawyer,  and  wrote  Whig  pamphlets.  None  of  his  writings  excited  much  notice 
before  the  famous  reply  to  Burke's  Reflections  {  Vitidicia:  Galliccr,  1791),  written 
in  the  then  quiet  village  of  Ealing.  The  Letter  to  Pitt  followed  in  1793. 
The  supposed  "  conversion"  of  Mackintosh  to  Burke's  view  of  the  Revolution 
was,  as  Burke  himself  allowed,  "none  at  all,"  but  the  two  men  became 
personal  friends.  In  1797  he  lost  his  wife,  but  married  again  in  1798. 
In  1799  he  delivered  at  Lincoln's  Inn  his  Lectures  on  the  Lmsj  of  Nature  and 
Nations.  On  the  Peace  of  Amiens  he  defended  Jean  Peltier  for  libel  on 
the  First  Consul,  February  1803.  He  was  then  earning  £^\'20o  a  year  at  the 
Bar,  then  thought  a  great  sum.  In  1804  he  became  Recorder  of  Bombay, 
returning  again  to  England  in  1812.  He  entered  Parliament  for  Nairn 
in  1B13,  and  divided  his  time  between  politics  and  literature.  In  1818 
he  became  Professor  of  Law  and  History  at  the  East  India  College, 
Ilaileybury.  He  sat  for  Knaresborough  from  1819  to  his  death,  and  devoted 
himself  especially  to  the  Reform  of  the  Penal  Laws.  The  first  parts  of  his 
Llistory  0/ England  were  published  1830,  1831.  The  "  Dissertation"  (for  the 
Rncycl.  Britatinica)  on  the  "  Progress  of  Ethical  Philosophy,"  appeared  in 
1830.      He  died  in  London,  1832.] 

Hazlitt  (in  the  Spirit  of  the  Age)  speaks  of  Mackintosh  as 
"  more  a  man  of  wonderful  and  variable  talent,  than  a  man  of 
commanding  intellect,"  and  evidently  thinks,  as  did  Macaulay 
(Essay  on  Mackintosh),  that  he  would  have  been  more  at  home 
in  a  professor's  chair,  than  in  parliament  and  the  law  courts. 
John  Mill  disliked  his  "verbiage."  Sydney  Smith  thought  him 
given  to  indiscriminate  praise.  But  he  was  a  man  deeply 
loved  and  admired.  Horner  never  conversed  with  him  without 
"  a  mixed  consciousness  of  inferiority  and  capability";  he  made 
others  feel  their  own   jKiwers  as  well  as  impressed  tliem  with    his. 


5SS  ENGLISH  PROSE 


His  reading  was  wide  and  miscellaneous,  though  in  literature 
he  clung  to  Bacon  and  Locke,  Milton  and  Gray,  with  special 
fondness.  As  it  is  with  many  others  whose  calling  is  to  be 
speakers,  his  writings  read  too  often  like  printed  orations  ;  there 
are  more  words  than  a  reader  needs,  though  not  more  than  a 
hearer  would  need,  for  due  understanding  of  the  meaning. 

He  won  recognition  early,  as  a  defender  of  the  Revolution 
of  1789.  He  was  much  moved  by  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and 
spoke  so  sharply  of  his  old  views  and  friends,  that  many  counted 
him  lost  to  the  Whig  cause,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Radical. 
But  it  was  not  so.  He  gradually  re-occupied  his  old  positions. 
In  his  letter  to  Conversation  Sharp  from  Bombay  1804,  he 
expressly  recants  his  recantation  {Life,  i.  128  scq.) 

His  historical  works  {Causes  of  the  English  Revolution^  etc.) 
have  something  of  Macaulay's  brilliancy  ;  but  they  are  fragments. 
Macaulay  has  left  us  his  opinion  on  them  and  on  their  author 
in  one  of  his  early  essays.  His  political  speeches  cannot  rank 
with  his  juridical,  so  far  as  we  have  full  reports  of  either. 
His  defence  of  Jean  Peltier,  though  Peltier  was  convicted,  is  a 
masterpiece  ;  and,  like  William  Hone's  defence  of  himself,  it 
owes  its  value  largely  to  its  learning,  which  confronts  the  present 
with  the  past.  There  is  also  present  in  it  the  eloquence  of  the 
advocate  who  knows  that  juries  are  not  always  to  be  moved  by 
mere  appeals  to  their  reason. 

The  Vindicitv  GaUicce,  like  Painc's  Rights  of  Man,  has  shown 
its  merits  by  surviving^  almost  alone,  out  of  a  host  of  answers  to 
Burke's  Reflections.  In  style  it  is  a  contrast  to  the  Discourse  07i 
the  Law  of  Nature  and  Nations,  the  first  of  a  series  of  lectures, 
in  which  Mackintosh  signalized  his  temporary  departure  from 
his  old  opinions.  Here  all  is  passion,  and  it  must  be  said,  all 
is  generality  ;  the  force  of  the  Vindicice  Gallicce  had  lain  in  its 
masterly  treatment  of  specific  points.  These  lectures  went  too 
far,  he  himself  allows,  in  censure  of  men  like  Godwin  ;  and 
Godwin  at  least  was  soon  restored  to  favour.  There  is  a  friendly 
notice  by  Mackintosh,  in  \\\q.  Edinburgh  Revieio,  October  181  5, 
of  his  book  on  the  Nephews  of  Milton. 

About  none  of  his  books  have  opinions  differed  more  widely 
than  about  his  "  Dissertation  on  the  Progressof  Ethical  Philosophy." 
It  was  certainly  more  complete  in  its  own  range  than  Dugald 
Stewart's  "  Dissertation,"  a  work  of  a  larger  scope,  written  for 
an  earlier  edition  of  the  same  Ejicyclopccdia  Britanntca.      Dugald 


JAMES  MACKINTOSH  589 


Stewart  though  a  moral  philosopher  had  not  done  full  justice 
to  the  ethics  of  his  predecessors,  if  indeed  he  had  meted  out  fit 
measure  to  their  metaphysics;  and  Mackintosh  was  able  to  continue 
the  history  further  down  than  Stewart.  The  complaints  that  he  is 
full  of  prejudice  against  Utilitarians,  and  that  his  style  is  bad, 
were  pressed  chiefly  by  an  opponent  (James  Mill)  who  wrote 
unreadably,  and  was  possessed  with  a  strong  bias.  The  same 
opponent  says  that  the  work  of  Mackintosh  is  like  a  series  of 
articles  in  a  magazine,  which  the  author  hung  together  like  beads 
on  a  string,  and  then  called  a  history  of  philosophy. 

Later  generations  of  philosophers  have  tempered  the  acrimony 
of  Mill's  verdict,  while  upholding  many  of  his  corrections  in 
detail.  Mackintosh,  though  not  of  Bentham's  school,  can 
hardly  be  called  an  opponent  of  Utilitarianism.  Bentham, 
he  says,  treated  ethics  too  juridically.  Ethical  theorists  must 
distinguish  (i)  the  question  concerning  the  existence  of  a  moral 
faculty,    immediately    approving    or    disapproving    certain    acts  ; 

(2)  the  question  concerning  the  quality  of  such   acts  themselves  ; 

(3)  the  question  whether  the  faculty  is  derivative  or  ultimate. 
Now  Mackintosh  does  not  hold  the  faculty  to  be  irreducible  and 
ultimate,  though  he  holds  that  moral  sentiments  relate  always 
to  the  "  state  of  the  will,"  and  that  the  moral  judgment  is  im- 
mediate ;  the  qualities  useful  to  ourselves,  can,  he  thinks,  by 
association  be  raised  to  the  rank  of  virtues.  The  coincidence 
of  virtue  with  utility  may  become  perfect. 

The  "  Dissertation "  is  not  faultless  either  in  matter  or 
style.  The  position  of  Kant  for  example,  could  hardly  be 
properly  understood  from  it  ;  nor  do  we  learn  much  when 
we  are  told  that  the  system  of  Hobbes  was  like  a  "palace 
of  ice  gradually  undermined  by  the  central  warmth  of  human 
feeling,  before  it  was  thawed  into  muddy  water  by  the  sun- 
shine of  true  philosophy."  Mackintosh  could  use  the  language 
of  common  life  when  he  chose.  The  question  whether  a  simple 
representative  legislature  is  better  than  a  constitution  of  mutual 
control,  is  (he  says  in  the  Vind.  Gall.)  simply  the  question 
"  whether  the  vigilance  of  the  master,  or  the  scjuabbles  of  the 
servants,  are  the  best  security  for  faithful  service."  A  little  more 
of  this  plainness  of  speech  would  have  enhanced  the  value  of  his 
writings  ;  but  formed  habits  were  too  strong  for  him. 

As  a  rule  he  preferred  the  stilted  style  of  the  peroration 
Sidney   Smith   invented  for  him  :   "  It   is   impossible   to  conclude 


590  ENGLISH  PKOSE 


these  observations  without  expressing  the  obUgations  I  am 
under  to  a  person  in  a  much  more  humble  scene  of  Hfe — 
I  mean,  sir,  the  hackney  coachman  by  whom  I  have  been 
driven  to  this  meeting.  To  pass  safely  through  the  streets  of 
a  crowded  metropolis,  must  require  on  the  part  of  the  driver 
no  common  assemblage  of  qualities.  He  must  have  caution 
without  timidity,  activity  without  precipitation,  and  courage 
without  rashness  ;  he  must  have  a  clear  perception  of  his  object, 
and  a  dexterous  use  of  his  means.  I  can  safely  say  of  the 
individual  in  question  that,  for  a  moderate  reward,  he  has 
displayed  unwearied  skill ;  and  to  him  I  shall  never  forget  that 
I  owe  unfractured  integrity  of  limb,  exemption  from  pain,  and 
perhaps  prolongation  of  existence.  Nor  can  I  pass  over  the 
encouraging  cheerfulness  with  which  I  was  received  by  the 
waiter,  nor  the  useful  blaze  of  light  communicated  by  the  link- 
boys,  as  I  descended  from  the  carriage.  It  was  with  no  common 
pleasure  that  I  remarked  in  these  men  not  the  mercenary  bustle 
of  venial  service,  but  the  genuine  effusions  of  untutored  bene- 
volence ;  not  the  rapacity  of  subordinate  agency,  but  the  alacrity 
of  humble  friendship.  What  may  not  be  said  of  a  country  where 
all  the  little  accidents  of  life  bring  forth  the  hidden  qualities  of 
the  heart,  where  her  vehicles  are  driven,  her  streets  illumined,  and 
her  bells  answered,  by  men  teeming  with  all  the  refinements  of 
civilized  life  ?  "  I  cannot  conclude,  sir,  without  thanking  you  for 
the  very  clear  and  distinct  manner  in  which  you  have  announced 
the  proposition  on  which  we  are  to  vote.  It  is  but  common 
justice  to  add  that  public  assemblies  rarely  witness  articulation  so 
perfect,  language  so  select,  and  a  manner  so  eminently  remark- 
able for  everything  that  is  kind,  impartial,  and  just"  (Sydney 
Smith,  Memoirs  and  Letters,  vol.  i.  390,  termination  of  a  speech 
by  Mackintosh). 

Yet  Sydney  Smith  would  have  been  the  first  to  allow  that 
there  was  always  something  in  his  friend's  words  that  was 
beyond  caricature. 

J.   BON.^R. 


THE  AGE  OF  CHIVALRY  IS   GONE 

In  the  eye  of  Mr.  Burke,  however,  these  crimes  and  excesses 
assume  an  aspect  far  more  important  than  can  be  communicated 
to  them  by  their  own  insulated  guilt.  They  form,  in  his  opinion, 
the  crisis  of  a  revolution — a  far  more  important  one  than  any 
mere  change  of  government — in  which  the  sentiments  and 
opinions  that  have  formed  the  manners  of  the  European  nations 
are  to  perish.  "The  age  of  chivalry  is  gone,  and  the  glory  of 
Europe  extinguished  for  ever."  He  follows  this  exclamation  by 
an  eloquent  eulogium  on  chivalry,  and  by  gloomy  predictions  of 
the  future  state  of  Europe,  when  the  nation  that  has  been  so  long 
accustomed  to  give  her  the  tone  in  arts  and  manners  is  thus 
debased  and  corrupted.  A  caviller  might  remark  that  ages,  much 
more  near  the  meridian  fervour  of  chivalry  than  ours,  have 
witnessed  a  treatment  of  queens  as  little  gallant  and  generous  as 
that  of  the  Parisian  mob.  He  might  remind  Mr.  Burke,  that,  in  ' 
the  age  and  country  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  a  Queen  of  France, 
whom  no  blindness  to  accomplishment,  no  malignity  of  detraction, 
can  reduce  to  the  level  of  Marie  Antoinette,  was,  by  "  a  nation  of 
men  of  honour  and  cavaliers,"  permitted  to  languish  in  captivity 
and  expire  on  a  scaffold  ;  and  he  might  add,  that  the  manners  of 
a  country  are  more  surely  indicated  by  the  systematic  cruelty  of 
a  sovereign  than  by  the  licentious  fury  of  a  mob.  He  might 
remark,  that  the  mild  system  of  modern  manners  v^^hich  survived 
the  massacres  with  which  fanaticism  had  for  a  century  desolated, 
and  almost  barbarized  Europe,  might,  perhaps,  resist  the  shock 
of  one  day's  excesses  committed  by  a  delirious  populace.  He 
might  thus  perhaps  oppose  specious  and  popular  topics,  to  the 
declamations  of  Mr.  Burke. 

But  the  subject  itself  is,  to  an  enlarged  thinker,  fertile  in  reflec- 
tions of  a  different  nature.  That  system  of  manners  which  arose 
among  the  Gothic  nations  of  Europe,  and  of  which  chivalry  was 
more  properly  the  effusion  than  the  source,  is  without  doul^t  one 
of  the  most  peculiar  and  interesting  appearances  in  human  affairs. 


592  ENGLISH  PROSE 


$ 
The  moral  causes  which  formed  its  character  have  not,  perhaps, 

been  hitherto  investigated  with  the  happiest  success ;  but,  to 
confine  ourselves  to  the  subject  before  us,  chivalry  was  certainly- 
one  of  the  most  prominent  of  its  features  and  most  remarkable  of 
its  effects.  Candour  must  confess,  that  this  singular  institution 
was  not  admirable  only  as  the  corrector  of  the  ferocious  ages  in 
which  it  flourished  ;  but  that  in  contributing  to  polish  and  soften 
manners  it  paved  the  way  for  the  diffusion  of  knowledge  and  the 
extension  of  commerce,  which  afterwards,  in  some  measure, 
supplanted  it.  Society  is  inevitably  progressive.  Commerce  has 
overthrown  the  "feudal  and  chivalrous  system"  under  whose 
shade  it  first  grew  ;  while  learning  has  subverted  the  superstition 
whose  opulent  endowments  had  first  fostered  it.  Peculiar  circum- 
stances connected  with  the  manners  of  chivalry  favoured  this 
admission  of  commerce  and  this  growth  of  knowledge  ;  while  the 
sentiments  peculiar  to  it,  already  enfeebled  in  the  j^rogress  from 
ferocity  and  turbulence,  were  almost  obliterated  by  tranquillity  and 
refinement.  Commerce  and  diffused  knowledge  have,  in  fact,  so 
completely  assumed  the  ascendent  in  polished  nations,  that  it  will 
be  difficult  to  discover  any  relics  of  Gothic  manners,  but  in  a 
fantastic  exterior,  which  has  survived  the  generous  illusions  through 
which  these  manners  once  seemed  splendid  and  seductive.  Their 
direct  influence  has  long  ceased  in  Europe  ;  but  their  indirect 
influence,  through  the  medium  of  those  causes  which  would  not 
perhaps  have  existed  but  for  the  mildness  which  chivalry  created 
in  the  midst  of  a  barbarous  ag^e,  still  operates  with  increasing- 
vigour.  The  manners  of  the  middle  age  were,  in  the  most 
singular  sense,  compulsory  :  enterprising  benevolence  was  produced 
by  general  fierceness,  gallant  courtesy  by  ferocious  rudeness  ; 
and  artificial  gentleness  resisted  the  torrent  of  natural  barbarism. 
But  a  less  incongruous  system  has  succeeded,  in  which  commerce, 
which  unites  men's  interests,  and  knowledge,  which  excludes  those 
prejudices  that  tend  to  embroil  them,  present  a  broader  basis  for 
the  stability  of  civilized  and  beneficent  manners. 

Mr.  Burke,  indeed,  forebodes  the  most  fatal  consequences  to 
literature  from  events,  which  he  supposes  to  have  given  a  mortal 
blow  to  the  spirit  of  chivalry.  I  have  ever  been  protected  from 
such  apprehensions  by  my  belief  in  a  very  simple  truth, — "that 
diffused  knowledge  immortalizes  itself."  A  literature  which  is 
confined  to  a  few,  may  be  destroyed  by  the  massacre  of  scholars 
and  the  conflagration  of  libraries  :    but  the  diffused  knowledge  of 


JAMES  MACKINTOSH  593 

the  present  day  could  only  be  annihilated  by  the  extirpation  of 
the  civilized  part  of  mankind. 

Y?iX  from  being  hostile  to  letters,  the  French  Revolution  has 
contributed  to  serve  their  cause  in  a  manner  hitherto  unexampled. 
The  political  and  literary  progress  of  nations  has  hitherto  been 
simultaneous  ;  the  period  of  their  eminence  in  arts  has  also  been 
the  era  of  their  historical  fame  ;  and  no  example  occurs  in  which 
their  great  political  splendour  has  been  subsecjuent  to  the  Augustan 
age  of  a  people.  But  in  France,  which  is  destined  to  refute  every 
abject  and  arrogant  doctrine  that  would  limit  the  human  powers, 
the  ardour  of  a  youthful  literature  has  been  infused  into  a  nation 
tending  to  decline  ;  and  new  arts  are  called  forth  when  all  seemed 
to  have  passed  their  zenith.  She  enjoyed  one  Augustan  age, 
fostered  by  the  favour  of  despotism  :  she  seems  about  to  witness 
another  created  by  the  energy  of  freedom. 

In  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Burke,  however,  she  is  advancing  by 
rapid  strides  to  ignorance  and  barbarism.  "  Already,"  he  informs 
us,  "  there  appears  a  poverty  of  conception,  a  coarseness  and 
vulgarity  in  all  the  proceedings  of  the  Assembly,  and  of  all  their 
instructors.  Their  liberty  is  not  liberal.  Their  science  is  pre- 
sumptuous ignorance.  Their  humanity  is  savage  and  brutal." 
To  animadvert  on  this  modest  and  courteous  picture  belongs  not 
to  the  present  subject  :  and  impressions  cannot  be  disputed, 
more  especially  when  their  grounds  are  not  assigned.  All  that 
is  left  to  us  to  do,  is  to  declare  opposite  impressions  with  a 
confidence  authorized  by  his  example.  The  proceedings  of  the 
National  Assembly  appear  to  me  to  contain  models  of  more 
splendid  eloquence,  and  examples  of  more  profound  political 
research,  than  have  been  exhibited  by  any  public  body  in  modern 
times.  I  cannot  therefore  augur  from  these  proceedings  the 
downfall  of  philosophy,  or  the  extinction  of  eloquence. 

Thus  various  are  the  aspects  which  the  French  Revolution, 
not  only  in  its  influence  on  literature,  but  in  its  general  tenour 
and  spirit,  presents  to  minds  occupied  by  various  opinions.  To 
the  eye  of  Mr.  Burke  it  exhibits  nothing  but  a  scene  of  horror  : 
in  his  mind  it  inspires  no  emotion  but  abhorrence  of  its  leaders, 
commiseration  for  their  victims,  and  alarms  at  the  influence  of 
an  event  which  menaces  the  subversion  of  the  policy,  the  arts, 
and  the  manners  of  the  civilized  world. 

Minds  who  view  it  through  another  medium  are  filled  by  it 
with  every  sentiment  of  admiration  and  triumph,  -   of  admiration 

VOL.  IV  2  Q 


594  ENGLISH  PROSE 


due  to  splendid  exertions  of  virtue,  and  of  triumph  inspired  by 
widening  prospects  of  happiness. 

Nor  ought  it  to  be  denied  by  the  candour  of  philosophy,  that 
events  so  great  are  never  so  unmixed  as  not  to  present  a  double 
aspect  to  the  acuteness  and  exaggeration  of  contending  parties. 
The  same  ardour  of  passion  which  produces  patriotic  and  legisla- 
tive heroism  becomes  the  source  of  ferocious  retaliation,  of  vision- 
ary novelties,  and  of  precipitate  change.  The  attempt  were 
hopeless  to  increase  the  fertility,  without  favouring  the  rank 
luxuriance  of  the  soil.  He  that  on  such  occasions  expects  un- 
mixed good,  ought  to  recollect,  that  the  economy  of  nature  has 
invariably  determined  the  equal  influence  of  high  passions  in 
giving  birth  to  virtues  and  to  crimes.  The  soil  of  Attica  was 
observed  to  produce  at  once  the  most  delicious  fruits  and  the 
most  virulent  poisons.  It  was  thus  with  the  human  mind  ;  and 
to  the  frequency  of  convulsions  in  the  ancient  commonwealths 
they  owe  those  examples  of  sanguinary  tumult  and  virtuous 
heroism,  which  distinguish  their  history  from  the  monotonous 
tranquillity  of  modern  states.  The  passions  of  a  nation  cannot 
be  kindled  to  the  degree  which  renders  it  capable  of  great 
achievements,  without  involving  the  commission  of  violence  and 
crime.  The  reforming  ardour  of  a  senate  cannot  be  inflamed 
sufficiently  to  combat  and  overcome  abuses,  without  hazarding 
the  evils  which  arise  from  legislative  temerity.  Such  are  the 
immutable  laws,  which  are  more  properly  to  be  regarded  as 
libels  on  our  nature  than  as  charges  against  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. The  impartial  voice  of  history  ought,  doubtless,  to  record 
the  blemishes  as  well  as  the  glories  of  that  great  event :  and  to 
contrast  the  delineation  of  it  which  might  have  been  given  by  the 
specious  and  temperate  Toryism  of  Mr.  Hume,  with  that  which 
we  have  received  from  the  repulsive  and  fanatical  invectives  of 
Mr.  Burke  might  still  be  amusing  and  instructive.  Both  these 
gentlemen  would  be  averse  to  the  Revolution  ;  but  it  would  not 
be  difficult  to  distinguish  between  the  undisguised  fuiy  of  an 
eloquent  advocate,  and  the  well  -  dissembled  partiality  of  a 
philosophic  judge.  The  passion  of  the  latter  would  only  feel  the 
excesses  which  have  dishonoured  the  Revolution  ;  but  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  fonner  would  instruct  him,  that  our  sentiments, 
raised  by  such  events  so  much  above  their  ordinary  level,  become 
the  source  of  guilt  and  heroism  unknown  before, — of  sublime 
virtues  and  splendid  crimes.  (From  Vindicice  Galliccr.) 


JAMES  MACKINTOSH  595 


THE   RIGHT   OF   REBELLION 

That  no  man  can  lawfully  promise  what  he  cannot  lawfully  do 
is  a  self-evident  proposition.  That  there  are  some  duties  superior 
to  others,  will  be  denied  by  no  one  ;  and  that  when  a  contest 
arises  the  superior  ought  to  prevail,  is  implied  in  the  terms  by 
which  the  duties  are  described.  It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that 
the  highest  obligation  of  a  citizen  is  that  of  contributing  to 
preserve  the  community  ;  and  that  every  other  political  duty, 
even  that  of  obedience  to  the  magistrates,  is  derived  from  and 
must  be  subordinate  to  it.  It  is  a  necessary  consequence  of 
these  simple  truths,  that  no  man  who  deems  self-defence  lawful 
in  his  own  case,  can,  by  any  engagement,  bind  himself  not  to 
defend  his  country  against  foreign  or  domestic  enemies.  Though 
the  opposite  propositions  really  involve  a  contradiction  in  terms, 
yet  declarations  of  their  truth  were  imposed  by  law,  and  oaths  to 
renounce  the  defence  of  our  country  were  considered  as  binding, 
till  the  violent  collision  of  such  pretended  obligations  with  the 
security  of  all  rights  and  institutions  awakened  the  national  mind 
to  a  sense  of  their  repugnance  to  the  first  principles  of  morality. 
Maxims,  so  artificial  and  over-strained,  which  have  no  more  root 
in  nature  than  they  have  warrant  from  reason,  must  always  fail 
in  a  contest  against  the  affections,  sentiments,  habits,  and  interests 
which  are  the  motives  of  human  conduct, — leaving  little  more 
than  compassionate  indulgence  to  the  small  number  who  con- 
scientiously cling  to  them,  and  fixing  the  injurious  imputation  of 
inconsistency  on  the  great  body  who  forsake  them  for  better 
guides. 

The  war  of  a  people  against  a  tyrannical  government  may  be 
tried  by  the  same  tests  which  ascertain  the  morality  of  a  war 
between  independent  nations.  The  employment  of  force  in  the 
intercourse  of  reasonable  beings  is  never  lawful  but  for  the 
purpose  of  repelling  or  averting  wrongful  force.  Human  life 
cannot  lawfully  be  destroyed,  or  assailed,  or  endangered,  for  any 
other  object  than  that  of  just  defence.  Such  is  the  nature  and 
such  the  boundary  of  legitimate  self-defence  in  the  case  of 
individuals.  Hence  the  right  of  the  lawgiver  to  protect  un- 
offending citizens  by  the  adeciuate  punishment  of  crimes  :  hence, 
also,    the    right   of  an    independent    state   to    take   all    measures 


596  ENGLISH  PROSE 


necessary  to  her  safety,  if  it  be  attacked  or  threatened  from 
without  ;  provided  always  that  reparation  cannot  otherwise  be 
obtained,  that  there  is  a  reasonable  prospect  of  obtaining  it  by 
arms,  and  that  the  evils  of  the  contest  are  not  probably  greater 
than  the  mischiefs  of  acquiescence  in  the  wrong  ;  including,  on 
both  sides  of  the  delibei'ation,  the  ordinary  consequences  of  the 
example,  as  well  as  the  immediate  effects  of  the  act.  If  repara- 
tion can  otherwise  be  obtained,  a  nation  has  no  necessary,  and 
therefore  no  just  cause  of  war;  if  there  be  no  probability  of 
obtaining  it  by  arms,  a  government  cannot,  with  justice  to  their 
own  nation,  embark  it  in  war  ;  and,  if  the  evils  of  resistance 
should  appear,  on  the  whole,  greater  than  those  of  submission, 
wise  rulers  will  consider  an  abstinence  from  a  pernicious  exercise 
of  right  as  a  sacred  duty  to  their  own  subjects,  and  a  debt  which 
every  people  owes  to  the  great  commonwealth  of  mankind,  of 
which  they  and  their  enemies  are  alike  members.  A  war  is  just 
against  the  wrongdoer  when  reparation  for  wrong  cannot  other- 
wise be  obtained  ;  but  it  is  then  only  conformable  to  all  the 
principles  of  morality,  when  it  is  not  likely  to  expose  the  nation 
by  whom  it  is  levied  to  greater  evils  than  it  professes  to  avert, 
and  when  it  does  not  inflict  on  the  nation  which  has  done  the 
wrong  sufferings  altogether  disproportioned  to  the  extent  of  the 
injury.  When  the  rulers  of  a  nation  are  required  to  determine  a 
question  of  peace  or  war,  the  bare  justice  of  their  case  against 
the  wrongdoer  never  can  be  the  sole,  and  is  not  always  the  chief 
matter  on  which  they  are  morally  bound  to  exercise  a  conscien- 
tious deliberation.  Prudence  in  conducting  the  affairs  of  their 
subjects  is,  in  them,  a  part  of  justice. 

On  the  same  principles  the  justice  of  a  war  made  by  a  people 
against  their  own  government  must  be  examined.  A  govern- 
ment is  entitled  to  obedience  from  the  people,  because  without 
obedience  it  cannot  perform  the  duty,  for  which  alone  it  exists,  of 
protecting  them  from  each  other's  injustice.  But,  when  a  govern- 
ment is  engaged  in  systematically  oppressing  a  people,  or  in 
destroying  their  securities  against  future  oppression,  it  commits 
the  same  species  of  wrong  towards  them  which  warrants  an 
appeal  to  arms  against  a  foreign  enemy.  A  magistrate  who 
degenerates  into  a  systematic  oppressor  shuts  the  gates  of  justice, 
and  thereby  restores  them  to  their  original  right  of  defending 
themselves  by  force.  As  he  witholds  the  protection  of  law  from 
them,  he  forfeits  his  moral  claim  to  enforce  their  obedience  by  the 


JAMES  MACKINTOSH  597 

authority  of  law.  Thus  far  civil  and  foreign  war  stand  on  the 
same  moral  foundation  :  the  principles  which  determine  the  justice 
of  both  against  the  wrongdoer  are,  indeed,  throughout,  the  same. 
But  there  are  certain  peculiarities,  of  great  importance  in  point 
of  fact,  which  in  other  respects  permanently  distinguish  them 
from  each  other.  The  evils  of  failure  are  greater  in  civil  than  in 
foreign  war.  A  state  generally  incurs  no  more  than  loss  in  war ; 
a  body  of  insurgents  is  exposed  to  ruin.  The  probabilities  of 
success  are  more  difficult  to  calculate  in  cases  of  internal  contest 
than  in  a  war  between  states  where  it  is  easy  to  compare  those 
merely  material  means  of  attack  and  defence  which  may  be 
measured  or  numbered.  An  unsuccessful  revolt  strengthens  the 
power  and  sharpens  the  cruelty  of  the  tyrannical  i-uler  ;  while  an 
unfortunate  war  may  produce  little  of  the  former  evil  and  of  the 
latter  nothing.  It  is  almost  peculiar  to  intestine  war  that  success 
may  be  as  mischievous  as  defeat.  The  victorious  leaders  may  be 
borne  along  by  the  current  of  events  far  beyond  their  destination  ; 
a  government  may  be  overthrown  which  ought  to  have  been  only 
repaired  ;  and  a  new,  perhaps  a  more  formidable,  tyranny  may 
spring  out  of  victory.  A  regular  government  may  stop  before  its 
fall  becomes  precipitate,  or  check  a  career  of  conquest  when  it 
threatens  destruction  to  itself ;  but  the  feeble  authority  of  the 
chiefs  of  insurgents  is  rarely  able,  in  the  one  case,  to  maintain 
the  courage,  in  the  other  to  repress  the  impetuosity,  of  their 
voluntary  adherents.  Finally,  the  cruelty  and  misery  incident  to 
all  warfare  are  greater  in  domestic  dissension  than  in  contests  with 
foreign  enemies.  Foreign  wars  have  little  effect  on  the  feelings, 
habits,  or  condition  of  the  majority  of  a  great  nation,  to  most  of 
whoin  the  worst  particulars  of  them  may  be  unknown.  But  civil 
war  brings  the  same  or  worse  evils  into  the  heart  of  a  country 
and  into  the  bosom  of  many  families  :  it  eradicates  all  habits  of 
recourse  to  justice  and  reverence  for  law  ;  its  hostilities  are  not 
mitigated  by  the  usages  which  soften  wars  between  nations  ;  it 
is  carried  on  with  the  ferocity  of  parties  who  apprehend  destruction 
from  each  other :  and  it  may  leave  behind  it  feuds  still  more 
deadly,  which  may  render  a  country  depraved  and  wretched 
through  a  long  succession  of  ages.  As  it  involves  a  wider  waste 
of  virtue  and  happiness  than  any  other  species  of  war,  it  can  only 
be  warranted  by  the  sternest  and  most  dire  necessity.  The 
chiefs  of  a  justly  disaffected  party  are  unjust  to  their  fellows  and 
their  followers,  as  well  as  to  all  the  rest  of  their  countrymen,  if 


598  ENGLISH  PROSE 


they  take  up  arms  in  a  case  where  the  evils  of  submission  are  not 
more  intolerable,  the  impossibility  of  reparation  by  pacific  means 
more  apparent,  and  the  chances  of  obtaining  it  by  arms  greater 
than  are  necessary  to  justify  the  rulers  of  a  nation  in  undertaking 
a  foreign  war.  A  wanton  rebellion,  when  considered  with  the 
aggravation  of  its  ordinary  consequences,  is  one  of  the  greatest  of 
crimes.  The  chiefs  of  an  inconsiderable  and  ill-concerted  revolt, 
however  provoked,  incur  the  most  formidable  responsibility  to 
their  followers  and  their  country.  An  insurrection  rendered 
necessary  by  oppression,  and  warranted  by  a  reasonable  prob- 
ability of  a  happy  termination,  is  an  act  of  public  virtue,  always 
environed  with  so  much  peril  as  to  merit  admiration. 

In  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  a  revolt  spreads  over  a 
large  body  till  it  approaches  unanimity,  the  fatal  peculiarities  of 
civil  war  are  lessened.  In  the  insurrection  of  provinces,  either 
distant  or  separated  by  natural  boundaries,  more  especially  if  the 
inhabitants,  differing  in  religion  and  language,  are  rather  subjects 
of  the  same  government  than  portions  of  the  same  people, — 
hostilities  which  are  waged  only  to  sever  a  legal  tie  may  assume 
the  regularity,  and  in  some  measure  the  mildness  of  foreign  war. 
Free  men,  carrying  into  insurrection  those  habits  of  voluntary 
obedience  to  which  they  have  been  trained,  are  more  easily  re- 
strained from  excess  by  the  leaders  in  whom  they  have  placed 
their  confidence.  Thus  far  it  may  be  affirmed,  happily  for  man- 
kind, that  insurgents  are  most  humane  where  they  are  most  likely 
to  be  successful.  But  it  is  one  of  the  most  deplorable  circum- 
stances in  the  lot  of  man,  that  the  subjects  of  despotic  govern- 
ments, and  still  more  those  who  are  doomed  to  personal  slavery, 
though  their  condition  be  the  worst,  and  their  revolt  the  most 
just,  are  disabled  from  conducting  it  to  a  beneficial  result  by  the 
very  magnitude  of  the  evils  under  which  they  groan  ;  for  the 
most  fatal  effect  of  the  yoke  is,  that  it  darkens  the  understanding 
and  debases  the  soul,  and  that  the  victims  of  long  oppression, 
who  have  never  imbibed  any  noble  principle  of  obedience,  throw 
off  every  curb  when  they  are  released  from  the  chain  and  the 
lash.  In  such  wretched  conditions  of  society,  the  rulers  may, 
indeed,  retain  unlimited  power  as  the  moral  guardians  of  the 
community,  while  they  are  conducting  the  arduous  process  of 
gradually  tr'ansforming  slaves  into  men,  but  they  cannot  justly 
retain  it  without  that  purpose,  or  longer  than  its  accomplishment 
requires  ;  but  the  e.\treme  difficulty  of  such  a  reformation,  as  well 


JAMES  MACKINTOSH  599 

as  the  dire  eftects  of  any  other  emancipation  oui^ht  to  l)e  deeply 
considered,  as  proofs  of  the  enormous  guilt  of  those  who  introduce 
any  kind  or  degree  of  unlimited  power,  as  well  as  of  those  who 
increase  by  their  obstinate  resistance  the  natural  obstacles  to  the 
pacific  amendment  of  evils  as  tremendous. 

The  frame  of  the  human  mind,  and  the  structure  of  civilized 
society,  have  adapted  themselves  to  these  important  differences 
between  civil  and  foreign  war.  Such  is  the  force  of  the  consider- 
ations which  have  been  above  enumerated  ;  so  tender  is  the 
regard  of  good  men  for  the  peace  of  their  native  country, 
so  numerous  are  the  links  of  interest  and  habit  which 
bind  those  of  a  more  common  sort  to  an  establishment,  so  diffi- 
cult and  dangerous  is  it  for  the  bad  and  bold  to  conspire  against 
a  tolerably  vigilant  administration,  —  the  evils  which  exist  in 
moderate  governments  appear  so  tolerable  and  those  of  absolute 
despotism  so  incorrigible,  that  the  number  of  unjust  wars  between 
states  unspeakably  surpasses  those  of  wanton  rebellion  against  the 
just  exercise  of  authority.  Though  the  maxim,  that  there  are  no 
unprovoked  revolts,  ascribed  to  the  Due  de  Sully  and  adopted 
by  Mr.  Burke,  cannot  be  received  without  exceptions,  it  must  be 
owned  that  in  civilized  times  mankind  have  suffered  less  from  a 
mutinous  spirit  than  from  a  patient  endurance  of  bad  government. 

(From  Causes  of  the  English  Revolution.) 


FREEDOM    OF   SPEECH 

In  the  course  of  the  eighteenth  century,  a  great  change 
took  place  in  the  state  of  political  discussion  in  this  country  :■ — • 
I  speak  of  the  multiplication  of  newspapers.  I  know  that 
newspapers  are  not  very  popular  in  this  place,  which  is  indeed, 
not  very  surprising^,  because  they  are  known  here  only  by 
their  faults.  Their  publishers  come  here  only  to  receive  the 
chastisement  due  to  their  offences.  With  all  their  faults,  I  own, 
I  cannot  help  feeling  some  respect  for  whatever  is  a  proof  of 
the  increased  curiosity  and  increased  knowledge  of  mankind  ; 
and  I  cannot  help  thinking,  that,  if  somewhat  more  indulgence 
and  consideration  were  shown  for  the  difficulties  of  their 
situation,  it  might  prove  one  of  the  best  correctives  of  their 
faults,    by    teaching    them    that    self-respect    which    is    the    best 


6oo  ENGLISH  FROSE 


security  for  liberal  conduct  towards  others.  But,  however 
that  may  be,  it  is  very  certain  that  the  multiplication  of  these 
channels  of  popular  information  has  produced  a  great  change 
in  the  state  of  our  domestic  and  foreign  politics.  At  home,  it 
has,  in  truth,  produced  a  gradual  revolution  in  our  government. 
By  increasing  the  number  of  those  who  exercise  some  sort  of 
judgment  on  public  affairs,  it  has  created  a  substantial  democracy, 
infinitely  more  important  than  those  democratic  forms  which 
have  been  the  subject  of  so  much  contest.  So  that  I  may 
venture  to  say,  England  has  not  only  in  its  fomis  the  most 
democratic  government  that  ever  existed  in  a  great  country, 
but,  in  substance,  has  the  most  democratical  government  that 
ever  existed  in  any  country  ; — if  the  most  substantial  democracy 
be  that  state  in  which  the  greatest  number  of  men  feel  an 
interest,  and  express  an  opinion  upon  political  questions,  and 
in  which  the  greatest  number  of  judgments  and  wills  concur 
in  influencing  public  measures. 

The  same  circumstance  gave  great  additional  importance  to 
our  discussion  of  continental  politics.  That  discussion  was  no 
longer,  as  in  the  preceding  century,  confined  to  a  few  pamphlets, 
written  and  read  only  by  men  of  education  and  rank,  which 
reached  the  multitude  very  slowly  and  rarely.  In  newspapers 
an  almost  daily  appeal  was  made,  directly  or  indirectly,  to 
the  judgment  and  passions  of  almost  every  individual  in  the 
kingdom  upon  the  measures  and  principles,  not  only  of  his  own 
country,  but  of  every  state  in  Europe.  Under  such  circumstances, 
the  tone  of  these  publications  in  speaking  of  foreign  governments 
became  a  matter  of  importance.  You  will  excuse  me  therefore, 
if,  before  I  conclude,  I  remind  you  of  the  general  nature  of 
their  language  on  one  or  two  very  remarkable  occasions,  and 
of  the  boldness  with  which  they  arraigned  the  crimes  of  powerful 
sovereigns,  without  any  check  from  the  laws  and  magistrates  of 
their  own  country.  This  toleration,  or  rather  this  protection, 
was  too  long  and  uniform  to  be  accidental.  I  am,  indeed,  very 
much  mistaken  if  it  be  not  founded  upon  a  policy  which  this 
country  cannot  abandon  without  sacrificing  her  liberty,  and 
endangering  her  national  existence. 

The  first  remarkable  instance  which  I  shall  choose  to 
state  of  the  unpunished  and  protected  boldness  of  the  English 
press, — of  the  freedom  with  which  they  animadverted  on  the 
policy  of  powerful  sovereigns,   is  on  the  partition   of  Poland   in 


JAMES  MACKINTOSH  6oi 

1772 — an  act  not  perhaps  so  horrible  in  its  means,  nor  so 
deplorable  in  its  immediate  effects,  as  some  other  atrocious 
invasions  of  national  independence,  which  have  followed  it, 
but  the  most  abominable  in  its  general  tendency  and  ultimate 
consequences  of  any  political  crime,  recorded  in  history,  because 
it  was  the  first  practical  breach  in  the  system  of  Europe,  the 
first  example  of  atrocious  robbery  perpetrated  on  unoffending 
countries,  which  has  been  since  so  liberally  followed,  and 
which  has  broken  down  all  the  barriers  of  habit  and  principle 
that  guarded  defenceless  states.  The  perpetrators  of  this 
atrocious  crime  were  the  most  powerful  sovereigns  of  the 
continent,  whose  hostility  it  certainly  was  not  the  interest  of 
Great  Britain  wantonly  to  incur.  They  were  the  most  illustrious 
princes  of  their  age  ;  and  some  of  them  were  doubtless  entitled 
to  the  highest  praise  for  their  domestic  administration,  as  well 
as  for  the  brilliant  qualities  which  distinguished  their  character. 
But  none  of  these  circumstances,  no  dread  of  their  resentment, 
no  admiration  of  their  talents,  no  consideration  for  their  rank, 
silenced  the  animadversion  of  the  English  press.  Some  of  you 
remember,  all  of  you  know,  that  a  loud  and  unanimous  cry  of 
reprobation  and  execration  broke  out  against  them  from  every 
part  of  this  kingdom.  It  was  perfectly  uninfluenced  by  any 
considerations  of  our  own  mere  national  interest,  which  might 
perhaps  be  supposed  to  be  rather  favourably  affected  by  that 
partition.  It  was  not,  as  in  some  other  countries,  the  indignation 
of  rival  robbers,  who  were  excluded  from  their  share  of  the 
prey :  it  was  the  moral  anger  of  disinterested  spectators  against 
atrocious  crimes,  the  gravest  and  the  most  dignified  moral 
principle  which  the  God  of  justice  has  implanted  in  the  human 
heart,  that  one,  the  dread  of  which  is  the  only  restraint  on  the 
actions  of  powerful  criminals,  and  the  promulgation  of  which  is 
the  only  punishment  that  can  be  inflicted  on  them.  It  is  a 
restraint  which  ought  not  to  be  weakened  :  it  is  a  punishment 
which  no  good  man  can  desire  to  mitigate.  That  great  crime 
was  spoken  of  as  it  deserved  in  England.  Robbery  was  not 
described  by  any  courtly  circumlocutions  :  rapine  was  not 
called  "policy"  ;  nor  was  the  oppression  of  an  innocent  people 
termed  a  "  mediation "  in  their  domestic  differences.  No 
prosecutions,  no  criminal  informations  followed  the  liberty  and 
the  boldness  of  the  language  then  employed.  No  complaints 
even   appear  to  have   been   made  from  abroad  ;  much   less   any 


6o2  ENGLISH  PROSE 


insolent  menaces  against  the  free  constitution  which  protected 
the  Enghsh  press.  The  people  of  England  \vere  too  long 
known  throughout  Europe  for  the  proudest  jjotentate  to  expect 
to  silence  our  press  by  such  means. 

I  pass  over  the  second  partition  of  Poland  in  1792  (you  all 
remember  what  passed  on  that  occasion — the  universal  abhorrence 
expressed  by  every  man  and  every  writer  of  every  party,— the 
succours  that  were  publicly  preparing  by  large  bodies  of 
individuals  of  all  parties  for  the  oppressed  Poles)  ;  I  hasten  to 
the  final  dismemberment  of  that  unhappy  kingdom,  which  seems 
to  me  the  most  striking  example  in  our  history  of  the  habitual, 
principled,  and  deep-rooted  forbearance  of  those  who  administer 
the  law  towards  pohtical  writers.  We  were  engaged  in  the  most 
extensive,  bloody,  and  dangerous  war  that  this  country  ever 
knew  ;  and  the  parties  to  the  dismemberment  of  Poland  were  our 
allies,  and  our  only  powerful  and  effective  allies.  We  had  every 
motive  of  policy  to  court  their  friendship,  every  reason  of  state 
seemed  to  require  that  we  should  not  permit  them  to  be  abused 
and  vilified  by  English  writers.  What  was  the  fact  ?  Did  any 
Englishman  consider  himself  at  liberty,  on  account  of  temporary 
interests,  however  urgent,  to  silence  those  feelings  of  humanity 
and  justice  which  guard  the  certain  and  permanent  interests  of 
all  countries  ?  You  all  remember  that  every  voice,  and  every  pen 
and  every  press  in  England,  were  unceasingly  employed  to  brand 
that  abominable  robbery.  You  remember  that  this  was  not 
confined  to  private  writers,  but  that  the  same  abhorrence  was 
expressed  by  every  member  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament  who 
was  not  under  the  restraints  of  ministerial  reserve.  No  minister 
dared  even  to  blame  the  language  of  honest  indignation  which 
might  be  very  inconvenient  to  his  most  important  political 
projects  ;  and,  I  hope  I  may  venture  to  say,  no  English  assembly 
would  have  endured  such  a  sacrifice  of  eternal  justice  to  any 
miserable  interest  of  an  hour.  Did  the  law-officers  of  the  crown 
venture  to  come  into  a  court  of  justice  to  complain  of  the  boldest 
of  the  publications  of  that  time  ?  They  did  not.  I  do  not  say 
that  they  felt  any  disposition  to  do  so  ; — I  believe  that  they  could 
not.  But  I  do  say,  that  if  they  had, — if  they  had  spoken  of  the 
necessity  of  confining  our  political  writers  to  cold  narrative 
and  unfeeling  argument, — if  they  had  informed  a  jury  that  they 
did  not  prosecute  history,  but  invective,  that,  if  private  writers  be 
at  all  to  blame  great  princes,  it  must  be  with  moderation  and 


JAiMES  MACKINTOSH  603 


decorum, — the  sound  heads  and  honest  hearts  of  an  EngHsh  jury 
would  have  confounded  such  sophistry,  and  would  have  declared, 
by  their  verdict,  that  moderation  of  language  is  a  relative  term, 
which  varies  with  the  subject  to  which  it  is  applied,-  -that 
atrocious  crimes  are  not  to  be  related  as  calmly  and  coolly  as 
indifferent  or  trifling  events, — that,  if  there  be  a  decorum  due  to 
exalted  rank  and  authority,  there  is  also  a  much  more  sacred 
decorum  due  to  virtue  and  to  human  nature,  which  would  be 
outraged  and  trampled  under  foot,  by  speaking  of  guilt  in  a 
lukewarm  language,  falsely  called  moderate. 

Soon  after,  gentlemen,  there  followed  an  act,  in  comparison 
with  which  all  the  deeds  of  rapine  and  blood  perpetrated  in  the 
world  are  innocence  itself, — the  invasion  and  destruction  of 
Switzerland — that  unparalleled  scene  of  guilt  and  enormity,  that 
unprovoked  aggression  against  an  innocent  country,  which  had 
been  the  sanctuary  of  peace  and  liberty  for  three  centuries, 
respected  as  a  sort  of  sacred  territory  by  the  fiercest  ambition  ; 
raised,  like  its  own  mountains,  beyond  the  region  of  the  storms 
which  raged  round  on  every  side,  the  only  warlike  people  that 
never  sent  forth  armies  to  disturb  their  neighbours,  the  only 
government  that  ever  accumulated  treasures  without  imposing 
taxes,  an  innocent  treasure  unstained  by  the  tears  of  the  poor, 
the  inviolate  patrimony  of  the  commonwealth,  which  attested  the 
virtue  of  a  long  series  of  magistrates,  but  which  at  length  caught 
the  eye  of  the  spoiler,  and  became  the  fatal  occasion  of  their  ruin  ! 
Gentlemen,  the  destruction  of  such  a  country — "  its  cause  so 
innocent,  and  its  fortune  so  lamentable  I " — made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  the  people  of  England.  I  will  ask  my  learned  friend,  if 
we  had  then  been  at  peace  with  the  French  Republic,  whether  we 
must  have  been  silent  spectators  of  the  foulest  crimes  that  ever 
blotted  the  name  of  humanity  ?  whether  we  must,  like  cowards 
and  slaves,  have  repressed  the  compassion  and  indignation  with 
which  that  horrible  scene  of  tyranny  had  filled  our  hearts  ?  Let 
me  suppose,  gentlemen,  that  Aloys  Reding,  who  has  displayed  in 
our  times  the  simplicity,  magnanimity,  and  piety  of  ancient 
heroes,  had,  after  his  glorious  struggle,  honoured  this  kingdom  by 
choosing  it  as  his  refuge,  that,  after  performing  prodigies  of 
valour  at  the  head  of  his  handful  of  heroic  peasants  on  the  field 
of  Morgarten  (where  his  ancestor,  the  Landamman  Reding,  had, 
five  hundred  years  before,  defeated  the  first  oppressors  of 
Switzerland),  he  had  selected  this  country  to  be  his   residence,  as 


604  ENGLISH  PROSE 


the  chosen  abode  of  liberty,  as  the  ancient  and  inviolable  asylum 
of  the  oppressed,  would  my  learned  friend  have  had  the  boldness 
to  have  said  to  this  hero,  that  he  must  hide  his  tears  (the  tears 
shed  by  a  hero  over  the  ruin  of  his  country  !)  lest  they  might 
provoke  the  resentment  of  Reubell  or  Rapinat,  that  he  must 
smother  the  sorrow  and  anger  with  which  his  heart  was  loaded, 
that  he  must  breathe  his  murmurs  low,  lest  they  might  be  over- 
heard by  the  oppressor  !  Would  this  have  been  the  language  of  my 
learned  friend  ?  I  know  that  it  would  not.  I  know,  that  by  such 
a  supposition,  I  have  done  wrong  to  his  honourable  feelings,  to 
his  honest  English  heart.  I  am  sure  that  he  knows  as  well  as  I 
do  that  a  nation,  which  should  thus  receive  the  oppressed  of  other 
countries,  would  be  preparing  its  own  neck  for  the  yoke.  He 
knows  the  slavery  which  such  a  nation  would  deserve,  and  must 
speedily  incur.  He  knows  that  sympathy  with  the  unmerited 
sufterings  of  others  and  disinterested  anger  against  their  oppressors, 
are,  if  I  may  so  speak,  the  masters  which  are  appointed  by 
Providence  to  teach  us  fortitude  in  the  defence  of  our  own  rights, 
that  selfishness  is  a  dastardly  principle,  which  betrays  its  charge 
and  flies  from  its  post,  and  that  those  only  can  defend  themselves 
with  valour,  who  are  animated  by  the  moral  approbation  with 
which  they  can  survey  their  sentiments  towards  others,  who  are 
ennobled  in  their  own  eyes  by  a  consciousness  that  they  are 
fighting  for  justice  as  well  as  interest — a  consciousness  which 
none  can  feel,  but  those  who  have  felt  for  the  wrongs  of  their 
Ijrethren.  These  are  the  sentiments  which  my  learned  friend 
would  have  felt.  He  would  have  told  the  hero  : — your  confidence 
is  not  deceived  :  this  is  still  that  England,  of  which  the  history 
may,  perhaps,  have  contributed  to  fill  your  heart  with  the  heroism 
of  liberty.  Every  other  country  of  Europe  is  crouching  under 
the  bloody  tyrants  who  destroyed  your  country  :  we  are  unchanged. 
We  are  still  the  same  people  which  received  with  open  arms  the 
victims  of  the  tyranny  of  Philip  II.  and  Louis  XIV.  We  shall 
not  exercise  a  cowardly  and  clandestine  humanity.  Here  we  are 
not  so  dastardly  as  to  rob  you  of  your  greatest  consolation  ; — 
here,  protected  by  a  free,  brave,  and  high-minded  people,  you 
may  give  vent  to  your  indignation,  you  may  proclaim  the  crimes 
of  your  tyrants,  you  may  devote  them  to  the  execration  of 
mankind.  There  is  still  one  spot  upon  earth  in  which  they  are 
abhorred  without  being  dreaded  ! 

(From  Defence  of  Jean  Peltier.) 


ISAAC   DISRAELI 


[Isaac  Disraeli  was  the  son  of  Benjamin  Disraeli,  a  scion  of  a  Jewisii 
family  which  had  been  settled  in  Spain.  His  father  came  to  London  in  1748, 
and  he  was  himself  born  there  in  1766.  He  was  educated  partly  in  private 
schools  in  luigland,  and  partly  abroad  ;  and,  renouncing  his  father's  plan  for 
him  of  a  commercial  life,  he  followed  his  own  tastes  for  a  literary  career.  He 
first  sought  the  patronage  of  Johnson,  to  whom  he  addressed  a  poem,  when 
Johnson  was  on  his  death-bed  ;  and  shortly  afterwards  attacked  Wolcot  (who 
subsequently  became  his  friend)  in  some  anonymous  verses  on  The  Abuse  of 
Satire.  In  1792,  appeared  the  first  instalment  of  the  Curiosities  of  Litera- 
hire.  The  book  attained  speedy  popularity,  and  was  enlarged  to  six  volumes, 
in  the  course  of  more  than  forty  years.  His  other  works  were  stories,  which 
obtained  no  permanent  hold  upon  public  attention  ;  political  treatises,  in 
which  he  maintained  the  cause  of  the  Stuart  kings  against  the  Parliamentary 
party,  the  first  being  the  Inquiry  into  the  Literary  and  Political  Character  of 
James  I.  (18 16),  and  the  next  the  five  volumes  of  the  Commentary  on  the 
Life  and  Neign  of  Char/es  /.  (1823)  ;  and  a  long  series  of  works  bearing  upon 
the  miscellanies  of  literary  history.  He  became  the  friend  of  all  the  leading 
literary  men  of  his  time  ;   and  died  in  1848.] 

It  is  difficult  for  us  at  the  present  day  fully  to  appreciate  the 
work  of  Isaac  Disraeli.  His  books  belong  to  the  class  of  which 
all  men  with  any  literary  taste,  read  something :  they  belong 
also,  perhaps,  to  the  class  of  which  few  men  read  very  much. 
The  shadow  of  his  son's  greater  fame  has  eclipsed  his  own 
reputation,  even  although  it  has,  in  a  certain  sense,  drawn  some 
additional  attention  to  his  name.  He  pursued  an  aim  in 
literature  which  the  taste  of  his  youth  dictated,  he  pursued  it 
with  unflagging  industry  and  devotion,  but  at  the  same  time 
with  some  of  the  discursiveness  of  the  dilettante :  and  he 
brought  to  his  work  wide  reading,  keen  literary  interest  and 
sympathy,  an  accurate  and  suggestive  memory,  considerable 
power  of  acute  thought,  and  some  discernment  of  character. 
Intended    by    his    parents    for    mercantile    pursuits,    that    "pre- 


6o6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


disposition  "  which  he  thought  was  the  necessary  accompaniment 
of  genius,  repelled  him  from  that  line  of  life  ;  but  an  easy 
competence  and  an  indulgence,  kind  to  what  his  relations 
deemed  to  be  foibles,  enabled  him  to  pursue  his  own  taste 
without  any  of  the  struggles  with  adverse  circumstances  which 
might  have  given  to  his  literary  vein  greater  force,  and  might 
have  strengthened  the  sinews  of  his  mind.  He  began  with 
writing  verse,  and  proceeded  next,  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  to 
publish  the  first  instalment  of  those  literary  anecdotes  which 
the  taste  of  the  day  encouraged,  and  for  which  a  model  was 
found  in  the  French  collections  of  ana.  He  meditated  throughout 
all  his  life  the  project  of  a  great  history  of  literature  :  but  his 
studies,  although  prolonged  and  ardent,  were  not  sufficiently 
aided  by  mental  power  or  genius  to  sustain  him  in  a  com- 
prehensive work,  nor  was  he  sufficiently  master  of  the  com- 
parative method  of  criticism,  to  have  rendered  such  a  work  of 
any  real  value  in  point  of  scholarship.  After  the  first  instalments 
of  his  work  were  published,  he  devoted  himself  even  more 
exclusively  to  storing  his  memory :  and  his  niore  important 
works — T/ic  CalainHics  of  At/f/iors^  The  Quarrels  of  Authors., 
The  Essay  on  tlic  Literary  Character.,  and  the  later  series  of 
The  Curiosities  of  Literature — were  all  issued  after  he  was 
forty-five  years  of  age.  All  can  learn  something  from  them, 
all  can  find  entertainment  in  dipping  into  their  pages  here 
and  there  ;  but  they  have  no  claim  to  be  considered  as  serious 
literary  history  ;  their  miscellaneous  diversity  wearies  and  baffles 
us  :  and  we  are  hurried  so  fast  from  name  to  name,  linked  to 
one  another  often  by  some  trifling  association  of  ideas,  that 
we  become  confused  by  the  rapid  shifting  of  the  scene,  at 
the  most  only  have  our  curiosity  tickled,  and  close  the  book 
with  no  fixed  and  permanent  impression.  He  used  high-sounding 
words  in  connection  with  his  own  work,  which  dispassionate 
criticism  might  disallow.  "  I  still  keep  casting  philosophy  with 
anecdotes,"  he  says,  "  and  anecdotes  with  philosophy," — but  the 
philosophy  is  of  a  very  superficial  type.  We  feel  that  many 
of  the  anecdotes  so  whimsically  strung  together,  might  be 
interesting  indeed  if  they  were  the  fruit  of  our  own  remembered 
reading,  but  that  they  should  be  presented  to  us  with  more  of 
the  vivifying  power  of  genius  if  they  are  to  impress  us  in  a 
second-hand  catalogue.  Isaac  Disraeli  has  not  given  us  a 
critical  history  of  English  literature  :  just  as  little  has  he  given 


ISAAC  DISRAELI  607 


us  that  which  demanded  perhaps  even  greater  genius,  a  series 
of  essays  in  the  older  method  which  might  have  enwoven 
anecdotes,  and  yet  sustained  interest  by  the  play  of  fancy  and 
of  art.  The  Essay  oti  tJic  Literary  CJiaractcr  is  reckoned  by 
his  son  as  the  most  perfect  of  his  works  ;  and  although  it  has 
not  attained  the  secure  place  amongst  books  of  common  reference 
which  has  been  accorded  to  the  Curiosities,  the  estimate  is 
probably  true.  The  book  has  more  of  sustained  argument 
and  definite  aim  than  any  other  which  he  wrote.  It  contains 
many  passages  full  of  sympathy  and  insight,  it  depends  less 
than  most  of  his  books  upon  the  miscellaneous  and  rather 
disorderly  storehouse  of  a  retentive  memory,  and  its  defence 
of  inborn  genius  as  against  the  senseless  notion  then  current, 
of  genius  as  meaning  only  a  certain  measure  of  talent  directed 
by  some  accidental  bias,  is  not  only  successful,  but,  at  the 
time,  was  of  real  importance.  His  political  estimates  were 
perhaps  useful  as  protests  against  views  of  the  seventeenth 
centuiy  which  fashionable  Whiggism  had  made  prevalent  ;  but 
even  if  we  sympathise  with  them,  we  cannot  maintain  that  they 
are  either  persuasive  in  form,  or  powerful  in  argument.  Of 
these  the  Covuncntary  on  the  Life  and  Reign  of  Cluirles  I.  is 
the  most  important. 

His  style  in  some  of  his  earlier  works  is  thoroughly  bad — 
a  vile  imitation  of  the  whimsical  caprices  which  the  genius  of 
a  Sterne  might  make  acceptable,  but  which  in  the  hands  of 
imitators  was  only  ridiculous.  A  specimen  of  this  may  be 
sought  in  Flini-flanis :  the  Life  and  Errors  of  my  Unele ;  but, 
for  the  sake  of  his  reputation,  it  is  better  forgotten.  In  his  other 
works  the  style  has  perhaps  a  little  too  much  of  formality,  and 
gives  the  impression  that  he  is  taking  himself  rather  more 
seriously  than  is  necessary.  It  is  not  always  very  correct,  and 
is  sometimes  open  to  the  charge  of  ambiguity.  But  on  the 
other  hand  it  has  the  graceful  and  courteous  dignity  of  a  scholai-, 
imbued  with  a  deep  and  reverent  sympathy  for  literature  :  and 
at  times  there  is  a  boldness  and  happy  fancy  in  the  choice  and 
collocation  of  epithets  which  not  only  marks  the  author's  Eastern 
origin,  but  gives  a  foretaste  of  that  which  was  the  crowning- 
oratorical  glory  of  his  son's  transcendent  genius.  Isaac  Disraeli 
had  not  the  intellectual  grasp  nor  the  critical  insight  recjuired 
for  the  literary  historian  :  neither  had  he  the  suljtle  art  of 
the   essayist,  to  whom   anecdotes   only  serve   as   apt  illustrations. 


6o8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


and  who  sustains  our  interest  by  combining-  unity  of  theme 
with  copiousness  of  allusion.  But  at  his  best  he  has  all  the 
grace,  the  culture,  the  well-stored  memory,  the  ready  sympathy 
of  the  retiring-  and  leisurely  scholar — with  a  formality  of  manner 
which  is  at  times  a  little  obtrusive. 

H.  Craik. 


DENNIS  THE  CRITIC 

It  is  an  observation  frequently  made  by  men  of  letters  in  con- 
versation, whenever  some  renowned  critic  is  mentioned,  that  he 
was  a  very  ill-natured  man.  An  observation  which  is  fully 
verified  by  facts  ;  so  that  sometimes  we  are  nearly  tempted  to 
suppose  that  ill-nature  is  the  spirit  of  criticism.  The  verbal  or 
minor  critics,  are  persons  of  the  slenderest  faculties,  and 
the  most  irascible  dispositions.  What  can  we  hope  from  men 
who  have  consumed  thirty  pages  in  quarto,  on  the  signification  of 
one  little  word,  and  after  this  insane  discussion,  have  left  the  un- 
happy syllable  to  the  mercy  of  future  literary  frenzy  ? 

But  there  is  a  species  of  critics,  who  rather  attach  themselves 
to  modern  than  to  ancient  writers  ;  and  who  pursue  and  settle  on 
a  great  genius,  as  summer  flies  attack  the  tails  of  the  best  fed 
horses,  the  more  fervid  the  season  and  the  plumper  the  horse, 
the  livelier  is  the  attack.  They  are  born  for  the  torment  of  the 
ingenious,  and  the  gratification  of  the  malicious  of  their  age.  It 
has  too  often  happened,  that  a  superior  writer  has  been  mortified 
during  his  whole  life,  by  such  a  painful  shadow.  The  ancestors 
of  these  critics  appear  to  have  flourished  in  the  days  of  Terence, 
and  this  poet  has  distinguished  them  by  the  honourable  title  of 
the  Malevoli.  Zoilus,  who  has  left  them  his  name,  the  patriarch 
of  true  criticism,  as  Swift  calls  their  talent,  fell  a  martyr  to  their 
cause  ;  for  this  great  man  was  either  burnt,  or  crucified,  or  stoned. 

In  the  person  of  Dennis,  we  may  contemplate  the  character  of 
these  disturbers  of  literary  repose.  The  mind  of  this  critic  was 
endowed,  not  with  refinement,  but  with  subtlety  ;  not  with  correct- 
ness, but  with  minuteness  ;  not  with  quick  sensibility,  but  with 
critical  erudition.  A  prominent  feature  in  his  character,  was  that 
intellectual  quality,  called  common  sense,  which  would  have 
rendered  him  an  useful  citizen.  A  virtue  in  a  saddler,  but  a  vice 
in  a  critic.      In  literature,  common  sense  is  a  penurious   faculty, 

VOL.    IV  2  R 


6io  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  which  all  the  acquisitions  are  mean  and  of  little  value.  If  we 
allow  him  these  qualities,  we  must  utterly  deny  him  that  sensi- 
bility of  taste  which  feels  the  charms  of  an  author,  by  a  congeni- 
ality of  spirit  ;  that  quick  apprehension,  which  may  occasionally 
point  out  the  wanderings  of  genius,  but  which  oftener  confirms 
the  pleasures  we  feel,  by  proving  their  propriety  ;  nor  had  he  that 
flexibility  of  intellect,  which  yields  to  the  touch  of  the  object 
before  him  ;  before  he  ventured  to  be  pleased,  he  was  compelled 
to  consult  Aristotle. 

His  learning  was  the  bigotry  of  literature.  It  was  ever 
Aristotle  explained  by  Dennis.  But  in  the  explanation  of  the 
obscure  text  of  his  master,  he  was  led  into  such  frivolous  distinc- 
tions, and  tasteless  propositions  that  his  works  deserve  inspection, 
as  examples  of  the  manners  of  a  true  mechanical  critic  ;  the 
genius  of  Homer  would  sink  blended  with  the  dulness  of  Dennis. 

Several  singular  coincidences  alone  gave  the  ephemeron  critic 
his  temporary  existence.  Criticism  was  a  novelty  at  that  period 
of  our  literature.  He  flattered  some  great  men,  and  he  abused 
three  of  the  greatest ;  this  was  one  mode  of  securing  popularity  ; 
because,  by  this  contrivance,  he  divided  the  town  into  two  parties  ; 
and  the  irascibility  and  satire  of  Pope  and  Swift,  were  not  less 
serviceable  to  him,  than  the  partial  panegyrics  of  Dryden  and 
Congreve.  If  insulted  genius  had  not  noticed  Dennis,  Dennis  in 
vain  would  have  insulted  genius.  Sometimes  his  strictures, 
though  virulent,  were  just  ;  even  Zoilus  doubtless  detected  many 
defects  in  Homer.  But  such  criticisms  are  only  a  kind  of  plate- 
powder,  very  useful  to  repolish  the'  works  of  genius.  The 
performances  of  our  critic  appear  never  to  have  been  popular, 
and  this  fact  is  recorded  by  himself  Of  the  favourable  opinion 
he  entertained  of  his  own  powers,  and  the  public  neglect  they 
received,  when  not  supported  by  the  malignant  aid  of  satire,  the 
following  passages  will  sufficiently  prove.  He  observes  in  his 
tracts,  "  If  I  had  written  only  the  first  treatise,  I  believe,  that 
upon  reading  it,  you  will  be  of  opinion,  and  far  be  presumption 
from  that  belief,  that  I  had  deserved  better  of  the  commonwealth 
of  leai-ning,  than  the  authors  of  so  many  sonorous  trifles,  who 
have  been  too  much  encouraged,  while  I  have  been  too  much 
neglected.  The  position,  which  is  the  subject  of  it,  viz. — That 
religion  is  that  which  gives  principally  to  great  poetry  its  spirit, 
its  sublimity,  its  vehemence,  and  its  strongest  enthusiasm,  is  very 
clearly  proved." 


ISAAC  DISRAELI  6ii 


One  more  specimen  may  be  necessary.  He  adds,  "  that 
though  criticism  has  flourished  for  2000  years,  descending  from 
ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  to  modern  France  and  Italy,  yet  that 
neither  Greece,  nor  Rome,  nor  France,  nor  modern  Italy,  has 
treated  of  this  important  point  ;  but  that  it  was  left  for  a  person 
who  has  the  honour  of  being  your  lordship's  countrj'man,  to 
assert  it,  and  demonstrate  it.  If  what  I  have  said  may  seem  to 
some  persons,  into  whose  hands  these  sheets  may  happen  to  fall, 
to  have  too  great  a  tincture  of  vanity  in  it,  your  lordship  knows 
very  well,  that  persons  so  much  and  so  long  oppressed  as  I  have 
been,  have  been  always  allowed  to  say  things  concerning  them- 
selves, which  in  others  might  be  offensive." 

There  is  a  degree  of  vanity  and  vexation  in  these  extracts,  of 
which  the  former  is  only  excuseable  for  the  latter.  His  vanity 
we  know  was  excessive,  and  this  oppression,  of  which  he  com- 
plains, might  not  be  less  imaginary  than  his  alarm  of  being 
delivered  over  to  the  French,  for  the  composition  of  a  tragedy 
that  could  never  be  read.  Dennis  undoubtedly  had  laboured 
with  zeal,  which  could  never  meet  with  a  reward  ;  and  perhaps, 
amidst  his  critical  labours,  he  turned  often,  with  an  aching  heart, 
from  their  barren  contemplation,  to  that  of  the  social  comforts  he 
might  have  derived  from  his  paternal  saddles. 

His  occasional  strictures  on  popular  works  had  certainly  a 
transient  season.  Such  criticisms  were  assisted  by  the  activity 
of  envy,  and  by  the  supineness  of  indolence.  These  also  were 
his  best  productions,  but  I  must  still  affirm  that  they  were  the 
best  productions  of  a  dull  writer.  A  beautiful  tragedy  may  be 
composed,  which  may  serve  the  purposes  of  the  Dennises  ;  and 
its  errors  may  fill  their  voluminous  pamphlet  ;  but  also,  it  is  very 
possible  to  construct  a  tragedy  which  would  famish  the  Dennises, 
and  at  the  same  time  be  destitute  of  whatever  can  impart  delight 
to  the  lover  of  poetry. 

Dennis  aspired  also  to  original  composition.  His  verse  is  the 
verse  of  one  who  has  learnt  poetry,  as  the  blind  we  know  may 
practise  the  art  ;  a  mechanical  operation  performed  by  substantives 
and  adjectives.  His  sentiments  are  wild,  and  his  lines  irregular; 
turgid  expressions  in  rumbling  verse  ;  the  painful  throes  of  a 
muse,  who  is  made  to  produce  monsters  against  the  designs  of 
nature.  Such  versifiers  are  well  described  by  Denham  in  tliis 
line  :   their  works  are 


Not  the  effect  of  poetry,  but  [inins. 


6i2  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Yet  Dryden,  with  the  usual  partiahty  of  friendship,  deludes 
Dennis  by  eulogies  on  his  poetry,  and  in  one  of  his  letters, 
published  by  our  author,  advises  him  to  apply  himself  to  the 
Pindaric.  After  this,  I  believe,  Dennis  produced  his  long 
rambling  ode  in  praise  of  Dryden,  which,  perhaps,  equals  the 
worst  of  Cowley's. 

His  prose  has  at  times  animation,  particularly  when  he  warms 
into  abuse.  His  conceptions,  indeed,  were  never,  never  delicate  ; 
but  sometimes  their  grossness  is  striking ;  as  what  he  says  of 
puns,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  there  is  as  much  difference  between 
the  silly  satisfaction  which  we  have  from  a  cjuibble  and  the 
ravishing-  pleasure  which  we  receive  from  a  beautiful  thought,  as 
there  is  betwixt  a  faint  salute  and  fruition." 

His  criticisms  are  often  so  many  castles  in  the  air,  for  almost 
in  every  work  he  is  proposing  and  explaining  some  fantastical 
scheme.  In  his  long  treatise  on  modern  poetry,  he  labours  to 
show,  that  the  strong  interest  which  the  ancients  felt  in  their 
poetry,  was  derived  from  that  use  of  religion  which  their  poets 
employed  ;  and  therefore,  he  concludes,  that  if  religion  is  intro- 
duced into  our  poems,  modern  poetry  will  rival  the  ancient.  But 
how  false  this  system  is  criticism  and  experience  have  now 
positively  decided.  Polytheism  indeed  was  a  religion  well 
adapted  to  poetical  fancies  ;  since  nothing  can  be  more  poetical 
than  an  endless  train  of  beings,  diversified  in  their  characters, 
and  distinguished  by  their  emblems.  The  brilliancy  of  imagina- 
tion, the  gaieties  of  description,  and  the  conflict  of  the  passions, 
alike  formed  a  human  interest  in  the  deities  of  the  ancients.  But 
the  unity  of  our  religion  teaches  only  the  lesson  of  obedience,  and 
throwing  a  veil  over  the  mysterious  Deity,  would  consider  de- 
scription as  impiety,  and  silence  as  the  only  expression  of  the 
human  passions. 

Having  concluded  what  I  had  to  observe,  on  the  literary 
character  of  Dennis,  I  shall  now  consider  his  moral  one.  The 
lesson  may  not  prove  uninstructive,  for  we  shall  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  contemplating  how  an  ill-natured  critic  is  an  ill-natured 
man,  and  that  the  perversions  of  the  head  are  often  so  many 
particles  of  venom  which  fly  from  the  heart. 

The  magisterial  decisions  of  criticism,  communicated  a  personal 
importance  to  this  author.  Accustomed  to  suspend  the  scourge 
over  the  heads  of  the  first  writers  of  the  age,  it  appears,  that 
Dennis  could  not  sit  at  a  table,  or  walk  down  a  street  without 


ISAAC  DISRAELI  613 


exerting  the  despotic  rudeness  of  a  literary  dictator.  The  brutal 
violence  of  his  mind,  was  discoverable  in  his  manners  ;  an  odd 
mixture  of  frantic  enthusiasm,  and  gross  dulness.  Pride  now 
elevated  and  vaunting,  now  depressed  and  sore.  How  could  the 
mind  that  devoted  itself  to  the  contemplation  of  masterpieces, 
only  to  reward  its  industry  by  detailing  to  the  public  their  human 
frailties,  experience  one  hour  of  amenity,  one  idea  of  grace,  one 
generous  expression  of  sensibility  ?  Pope's  celebrated  description 
of  the  personal  manners  of  our  critic,  is  an  exact  representation  : 

Lo  Appius  reddens  at  each  word  you  speak  ; 
And  stares  tremendous  with  a  threatening  eye, 
Like  some  fierce  tyrant  in  old  tapestry. 

It  is  recorded  of  Dennis,  that  when  he  read  this  passage  at  a 
bookseller's,  he  involuntarily  exclaimed,  "  By  G —  he  means  me  !  " 

Dennis  had  so  accustomed  himself  to  asperity,  and  felt  with 
such  facility  and  force  the  irritation  he  gave  and  he  received, 
that  without  having  left  on  record  but  the  suspicion  of  one 
immoral  action  (for  it  is  said  he  stabbed  a  man  at  college),  we 
suspect  the  improbity  of  his  heart  when  we  recollect  the  licen- 
tiousness of  his  pen.  But  this  has  ever  been  the  characteristic  of 
this  race  of  critics.  They  attach  to  the  writer  they  attack  an 
inveteracy,  which  is  not  permitted  by  common  humanity.  From 
their  darkened  closet,  they  suppose,  that  the  affairs  of  civil  life 
are  suspended,  in  an  awful  pause,  for  their  decisions  ;  and  they 
think,  when  they  have  discovered  the  want  of  unity  in  a  tragedy, 
that,  in  consequence,  the  same  want  is  immediately  to  take  place 
among  the  public. 

A  critic  resembling  Dennis,  was  Gaqon  in  France.  This 
Zoilus  reproached  La  Motte  with  his  blindness,  and  Dennis 
cruelly  censured  the  feeble  frame  of  Pope.  Young,  in  his  second 
epistle  to  Pope,  sarcastically  alluded  to  Dennis  in  these  words, 

My  narrow-minded  satire  can't  extend 
To  Codrus'  form,  I'm  not  so  much  his  friend  ; 
Himself  should  publish  that  (the  world  agree) 
Before  his  works,  or  in  the  pillory. 

Gagon  wrote  "  satirical  discourses  on  all  kinds  of  subjects,"  and 
compiled  a  volume  of  calumnies  against  the  poet  Rousseau,  which 
he  entitled  an  Anti-Rousseau  ;  Anti  was  long  a  favourite  title  to 
the  works  of  such  critics.  Whenever  there  appeared  a  great 
genius,  he  immediately  found  an  antipode. 


6i4  ENGLISH  PROSE 


An  anecdote  little  known,  relative  to  Dennis,  will  close  his 
character.  It  appears,  that  the  Provoked  Husband  was  acted  for 
his  benefit,  which  procured  him  about  a  hundred  pounds.  Thom- 
son and  Pope  generously  supported  the  old  critic,  and  Savage, 
who  had  nothing-  but  a  verse  to  give,  returned  them  poetical 
thanks  in  the  name  of  Dennis.  When  Dennis  heard  these  lines 
repeated  (for  he  was  then  blind)  his  critical  severity,  and  his 
natural  brutality,  overcame  that  grateful  sense  he  should  have 
expressed,  of  their  kindness  and  their  elegance.  He  swore  "  by 
G —  they  could  be  no  one's  but  that  fool  Savage's."  This,  perhaps, 
was  the  last  peevish  snuff  from  the  dismal  torch  of  criticism,  for 
two  days  after  was  the  redoubted  Dennis  numbered  with  the 
mighty  dead. 

Criticism  has  thus  been  often  only  the  natural  effect  of  bad 
dispositions  ;  when  severe,  if  founded  on  truth,  it  is  not  blamed  ; 
but  this  truth  includes  the  idea  of  a  critic  convincing  his  reader, 
that  he  has  a  just  taste  for  the  beauties  of  a  composition  ;  for 
that  censure  which  only  takes  a  partial  review  of  a  work,  must 
be  defective.  There  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  the  public,  when  we 
defend  the  cause  of  taste,  but  at  the  same  time  there  is  a  duty  we 
owe  to  the  author.  A  skilful  censor  will  perfonn  his  task  by  a 
happy  combination  of  humanity  and  criticism  ;  and  it  is  elegantly 
said  of  Boileau  by  Voltaire,  that  the  honey  which  this  bee 
extracted  from  the  flowers,  softened  the  sharpness  of  the  wound 
he  inflicted. 

A  critic  is  only  the  footman  of  a  man  of  genius,  he  should 
respect  his  master,  and  not  suffer  the  torch  of  criticism,  which  he 
carries  before  him,  to  scorch,  but  only  to  illuminate. 

(From  Litcra)-y  Miscellanies.) 


GENIUS 

That  faculty  in  art  which  individualises  the  artist,  belonging  to 
him  and  no  other,  and  in  a  work  forms  that  creative  part  whose 
likeness  is  not  found  in  any  other  work, — is  it  inherent  in  the 
constitutional  dispositions  of  the  individual,  or  can  it  be  formed 
by  patient  acquisition  ? 

Astonished   at   their  own  silent   and    obscure  progress,   some 
have  imagined  that  they  had  formed  their  genius  solely  by  their 


IS  J  AC  DISRAELI  615 


own  studies  ;  when  they  acquired,  they  conceived  that  they  had 
generated  ;  and  losing  the  distinction  Ijetween  nature  and  habit, 
with  fatal  temerity  the  idolatry  of  philosophy  substituted  some- 
thing visible  and  palpable,  yet  shaped  by  the  most  opposite 
fancies,  called  a  Theory,  for  Nature  herself!  Men  of  genius, 
whose  great  occupation  is  to  be  conversant  with  the  inspirations 
of  nature,  made  up  a  factitious  one  among  themselves,  and 
assumed  that  they  could  operate  without  the  intervention  of  the 
occult  original.  But  Nature  would  not  be  mocked  ;  and  when- 
ever this  race  of  idolaters  have  worked  without  her  agency,  she, 
who  is  genial  in  all  her  own  productions,  invariably  afflicts  the 
votaries  who  do  not  feel  her  influence  with  the  most  stubborn 
sterility. 

Theories  of  genius  are  the  peculiar  constructions  of  our  own 
philosophical  times  :  ages  of  genius  had  passed  away,  and  they 
left  no  other  record  than  their  works  ;  no  preconcerted  theory 
described  the  workings  of  the  imagination  to  be  without  imagina- 
tion, nor  did  they  venture  to  teach  how  to  invent  invention. 

The  character  of  genius,  viewed  as  the  effect  of  habit  and 
education,  on  the  principle  of  the  ec^uality  of  the  human  mind, 
infers  that  men  have  an  equal  aptitude  for  the  work  of  genius  ; 
a  paradox  which,  with  a  more  fatal  one,  came  from  the  French 
school,  and  arose  probably  from  an  ecjuivocal  expression. 

Locke  employed  the  well-known  comparison  of  the  mind  with 
"  white  paper  void  of  all  characters,"  to  free  his  famous  Inquiry 
from  that  powerful  obstacle  to  his  system,  the  absurd  belief  of 
innate  ideas,  of  notions  of  objects  before  objects  were  presented 
to  observation.  Our  philosopher  considered  that  this  simple 
analogy  sufficiently  described  the  manner  in  which  he  conceived 
the  impressions  of  the  senses  write  themselves  upon  the  mind. 
His  French  pupils,  the  amusing  Helvetius,  or  Diderot,  for  they 
were  equally  concerned  in  the  paradoxical  L! Esprit^  inferred  that 
this  blank  paper  served  also  as  an  evidence  that  men  had  an 
equal  aptitude  for  genius,  just  as  the  blank  paper  reflects  to  us 
whatever  characters  we  trace  on  it.  This  equality  of  minds  gave 
rise  to  the  same  monstrous  doctrine  in  the  science  of  metaphysics 
which  that  of  another  verbal  misconception,  the  equality  of  men, 
did  in  that  of  politics.  The  Scottish  metaphysicians  powerfully 
combined  to  illustrate  the  mechanism  of  the  mind, — an  important 
and  a  curious  truth  ;  for  as  rules  and  principles  exist  in  the  nature 
of  things,  and  when  discovered  are  only  thence  drawn  out,  genius 


6i6  ENGLISH  PROSE 


unconsciously  conducts  itself  by  an  uniform  process  ;  and  when 
this  process  had  been  traced,  they  inferred  that  what  was  done 
by  some  men,  under  the  influence  of  fundamental  laws  which 
regulate  the  march  of  the  intellect,  must  also  be  in  the  reach  of 
others  who,  in  the  same  circumstances,  apply  themselves  to  the 
same  study.  But  these  metaphysicians  resemble  anatomists, 
under  whose  knife  all  men  are  alike  :  they  know  the  structure  of 
the  bones,  the  movement  of  the  muscles,  and  where  the  connect- 
ing ligaments  lie  ;  but  the  invisible  principle  of  life  flies  from 
their  touch  :  it  is  the  practitioner  on  the  living  body  who  studies 
in  every  individual  that  peculiarity  of  constitution  which  forms 
the  idiosyncracy. 

(From  TJie  Literary  Character.) 


THE  PLAYTHINGS   OF  PHILOSOPHERS 

The  museums,  the  cabinets,  and  the  inventions  of  our  early 
virtuosi  were  the  baby -houses  of  philosophers.  Baptista 
Porta,  Bishop  Wilkins,  and  old  Ashmole,  were  they  now  living, 
had  been  enrolled  among  the  quiet  members  of  the  Society  of 
Arts,  instead  of  flying  in  the  air,  collecting  "A  wing  of  the 
phoenix,  as  tradition  goes  "  :  or  catching  the  disjointed  syllables 
of  an  old  doting  astrologer.  But  these  early  dilettanti  had  not 
derived  the  same  pleasure  from  the  useful  inventions  of  the 
aforesaid  Society  of  Arts,  as  they  received  from  what  Cornelius 
Agrippa,  in  a  fit  of  spleen,  calls  "things  vain  and  superfluous," 
mvented  to  no  other  end  but  for  pomp  and  idle  pleasures. 
Baptista  Porta  was  more  skilful  in  the  mysteries  of  art  and 
nature  than  any  man  in  his  day.  Having  founded  the  Academia 
degli  Oziosi,  he  held  an  inferior  association  in  his  own  house 
called  Di  Segreti,  where  none  was  admitted  but  those  elect 
who  had  communicated  some  secret  ;  for,  in  the  early  period 
of  modern  art  and  science,  the  slightest  novelty  became  a  secret 
not  to  be  confided  to  the  uninitiated.  Porta  was  unquestionably 
a  fine  genius,  as  his  works  still  show  ;  but  it  was  his  misfortune 
that  he  attributed  his  own  penetrating  sagacity  to  his  skill  in  the 
art  of  divination.  He  considered  himself  a  prognosticator  ;  and, 
what  was  more  unfortunate,  some  eminent  persons  really  thought 
he  was.  Predictions  and  secrets  are  harmless,  provided  they 
are  not  believed  ;  but  His   Holiness  finding  Porta's  were,  warned 


ISAAC  DISRAELI  617 


him  that  magical  sciences  were  great  hindrances  to  the  study 
of  the  Bible,  and  paid  him  the  compliment  to  forbid  his 
prophesying.  Porta's  genius  was  now  limited,  to  astonish,  and 
sometimes  to  terrify,  the  more  ingenious  part  of  I  Segreti.  On 
entering  his  cabinet,  some  phantom  of  an  attendant  was  sure  to 
be  hovering  in  the  air,  moving  as  he  who  entered  moved  ;  or  he 
observed  in  some  mirror  that  his  face  was  twisted  on  the  wrong 
side  of  his  shoulders,  and  did  not  quite  think  that  all  was  right 
when  he  clapped  his  hand  on  it  ;  or  passing  through  a  darkened 
apartment  a  magical  landscape  burst  on  him,  with  human  beings 
in  motion,  the  boughs  of  trees  bending,  and  the  very  clouds 
passing  over  the  sun  ;  or  sometimes  banquets,  battles,  and 
hunting  parties,  were  in  the  same  apartment.  "  All  these 
spectacles  my  friends  have  witnessed  ! "  exclaimed  the  self- 
delighted  Baptista  Porta.  When  his  friends  drank  wine  out  of 
the  same  cup  which  he  had  used,  they  were  mortified  with 
wonder ;  for  he  drank  wine,  and  they  only  water !  or  on  a 
summer's  day,  when  all  complained  of  the  sirocco,  he  would  freeze 
his  guests  with  cold  air  in  the  room  ;  or,  on  a  sudden,  let  off  a 
flying  dragon  to  sail  along  with  a  cracker  in  its  tail,  and  a  cat 
tied  on  its  back  ;  shrill  was  the  sound,  and  awful  the  concussion  ; 
so  that  it  required  strong  nerves,  in  an  age  of  apparitions  and 
devils,  to  meet  this  great  philosopher  when  in  his  best  humour. 
Albertus  Magnus  entertained  the  Earl  of  Holland,  as  that  Earl 
passed  through  Cologne,  in  a  severe  winter,  with  a  warm  summer 
scene,  luxuriant  in  fruits  and  flowers.  .  .  .  Bishop  Wilkin's 
museum  was  visited  by  Evelyn,  who  describes  the  sort  of 
curiosities  which  occupied  and  amused  the  children  of  science. 
"  Here,  too,  there  was  a  hollow  statue,  which  gave  a  voice,  and 
uttered  words  by  a  long  concealed  pipe  that  went  to  its  mouth, 
whilst  one  speaks  through  it  at  a  good  distance  "  :  a  circumstance 
which,  perhaps,  they  were  not  then  aware  revealed  the  whole 
mystery  of  the  ancient  oracles,  which  they  attributed  to  demons 
rather  than  to  tubes,  pulleys,  and  wheels.  The  learned  Charles 
Patin,  in  his  scientific  travels,  records,  among  other  valuable 
productions  of  art,  a  cherry  stone  on  which  were  engraved  about 
a  dozen  and  a  half  of  portraits  1  Even  the  greatest  of  human 
geniuses,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  to  attract  the  royal  patronage, 
created  a  lion  which  ran  before  the  French  monarch,  dropping 
fleurs  dc  lis  from  its  shaggy  breast.  And  another  philosopher 
who  had  a  s]:)inet  which  played  and  stopped   at   command,  might 


6i8  ENGLISH  PROSE 


have  made  a  revolution  in  the  arts  and  sciences,  had  the  half- 
stifled  child  that  was  concealed  in  it  not  been  forced,  unluckily, 
to  crawl  into  daylight,  and  thus  it  was  proved  that  a  philosopher 
might  be  an  impostor  ! 

The  arts,  as  well  as  the  sciences,  at  the  first  institution  of  the 
Royal  Society  were  of  the  most  amusing  class.  The  famous 
Sir  Samuel  Moreland  had  turned  his  house  into  an  enchanted 
palace.  Everything  was  full  of  devices,  which  showed  art  and 
mechanism  in  perfection  :  his  coach  carried  a  travelling  kitchen  ; 
for  it  had  a  fireplace  and  grate,  with  which  he  could  make  a 
soup,  broil  cutlets  and  roast  an  ^^^  ;  and  he  dressed  his  meat  by 
clockwork.  Another  of  these  virtuosi,  who  is  described  as  "  a 
gentleman  of  superior  order,"  and  whose  house  was  a  knick- 
knackatory,  valued  himself  on  his  multifarious  inventions,  but 
most  in  "  sowing  salads  in  the  morning,  to  be  cut  for  dinner." 
The  house  of  Winstanley,  who  afterwards  raised  the  first 
Eddystone  lighthouse,  must  have  been  the  wonder  of  the  age. 
If  you  kicked  aside  an  old  slipper,  purposely  lying  in  your  way, 
up  started  a  ghost  before  you  ;  or  if  you  sat  down  in  a  certain 
chair,  a  couple  of  gigantic  arms  would  immediately  clasp  you  in. 
There  was  an  arbour  in  the  garden,  by  the  side  of  a  canal  ;  you 
had  scarcely  seated  yourself  when  you  were  sent  out  afloat  to  the 
middle  of  the  canal — from  whence  you  could  not  escape  till  this 
man  of  art  and  science  wound  you  up  to  the  arbour.  What  was 
passing  at  the  Royal  Society  was  also  occurring  at  the  Acad^iiie 
des  Sciences  at  Paris.  A  great  and  gouty  member  of  that 
philosophical  body,  on  the  departure  of  a  stranger,  would  point 
to  his  legs  to  show  the  impossibility  of  conducting  him  to  the 
door ;  yet  the  astonished  visitor  never  failed  finding  the  virtuoso 
waiting  for  him  on  the  outside,  to  make  his  final  bow  !  While 
the  visitor  was  going  downstairs,  this  inventive  genius  was 
descending  with  great  velocity  in  a  machine  from  the  window  : 
so  that  he  proved,  that  if  a  man  of  science  cannot  force  Nature 
to  walk  downstairs,  he  may  drive  her  out  at  the  window  ! 

(Froni  Curiosities  of  Literature.') 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH 


[Maria  Edgeworth  was  the  daughter  of  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth,  the 
representative  of  an  old  family  of  Irish  proprietors,  and  was  born  in  Oxford- 
shire in  1767.  Her  education  was  obtained  chiefly  in  England  ;  and  through 
her  father's  connections  she  became  early  imbued  with  what  were  held  to  be 
enlightened  views  on  "practical  education."  These  influenced  her  earliest 
writings,  which  began  with  the  Parent's  Assistant  in  1796,  and  Practical 
Education  in  1798.  Her  knowledge  of  literature  was  large;  her  oppor- 
tunities for  intellectual  intercourse  abundant  ;  and  her  acquaintance  with 
foreign  languages  very  considerable.  The  most  valuable  part  of  her  work 
was  due  to  her  acuteness  of  observation,  her  ready  perception  of  national 
characteristics,  especially  those  of  the  Irish,  amongst  whom  she  spent  the 
largest  part  of  her  life,  and  her  liveliness  of  description.  The  first  book  in 
which  these  powers  were  shown  was  Castle  Rackrent  (1800)  and  this  was 
followed  by  a  long  list  of  tales,  classified  by  her  father's  advice  and 
influence,  under  various  headings — Popular,  Moral,  Fashionable,  etc.  Her 
most  active  period  of  work  closed  in  18 17,  when  Harrington  and  Ormond 
were  published  ;  only  one  other  novel,  Helen,  followed  in  1834  ;  but  it  did 
not  attain  the  popularity  of  its  predecessors.  In  later  life  she  enjoyed  the 
warm  friendship  of  Scott,  and  was  an  important  figure  in  the  hterary  society 
of  the  day.     She  died  in  1849.] 

M.\RIA  Edgeworth  is  one  of  those  authors  of  whom  it  is  difficuh 
to  say  whether  the  reputation  transcends  or  falls  below  the  merits. 
Her  name  is  familiar  to  all,  many  of  her  books  are  read 
habitually,  and  retain  their  hold  on  a  large  audience,  some  of 
her  characters  are  household  words,  and  on  the  whole  we  of  the 
present  generation  are  fairly  well  acquainted  with  her  methods 
and  her  aims,  which  were  clear  and  definite.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  those  books  which  are  most  read  are  not  the  books  in 
which  she  allowed  her  talents  most  of  free  play.  She  is  best  known 
as  a  writer  of  children's  books,  of  which  the  popularity  does 
not  show  much  sign  of  failing  ;  and  in  these  her  common  sense 
and  healthy  didacticism  rouse  no  opposition.  The  audience  for 
whom    she  wrote   them    is    fortunately  not    supercilious    enough. 


620  ENGLISH  PROSE 


unless  it  has  been  nurtured  under  morbid  conditions,  to  object  to 
any  obtrusiveness  of  moral  teaching  ;  and  in  spite  of  all  the 
caprices  of  fashion,  Miss  Edgeworth  retains  a  perennial  hold  upon 
their  sympathy.  It  may  be  c^uestioned,  indeed,  whether  that 
preference  will  not  become  stronger,  in  the  reaction  against  a 
fashion  which  strives  to  please  children,  and  captivate  their 
attention,  by  books  which  have  some  flavour  of  humour  more 
readily  perceived  by  grown-up  people  than  by  healthy-minded 
children. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  books 
which  she  wrote  for  older  readers,  and  in  which  she  must  stand 
comparison  with  other  writers  of  fiction,  have  not  been  injured  by 
the  didacticism  of  her  children's  books.  The  influence  of  her 
early  associations,  the  impression  of  her  father's  theories,  and 
those  of  his  friends,  the  undue  consciousness  of  a  moral  purpose 
which  impresses  us  so  strongly,  did  undoubtedly  tend  to  limit  her 
freedom  of  fancy,  and  to  give  a  certain  air  of  formality  to  most  of 
her  pictures  of  life.  The  literary  partnership  between  father  and 
daughter  is  not  unpleasing,  but  the  little  descriptive  prefaces 
which  W.  Edgeworth  wrote  to  most  of  his  daughter's  works  do 
certainly  give  them  an  air  of  artificiality  which  his  influence  con- 
stantly impressed  upon  her.  The  very  superficial  views  as  to 
what  he  and  his  friends  called  "practical  education" — which  even 
so  friendly  a  critic  as  Scott  shatters  in  one  or  two  sentences  of 
sound  common  sense — marred  all  her  views  of  human  nature  and 
of  society,  and  gave  to  her  world  too  much  of  the  atmosphere 
of  the  schoolroom.  She  harps  too  much  on  one  string ;  the 
moral  is  unnaturally  obtrusive  ;  her  characters  range  themselves 
too  distinctly  as  bad  or  good,  and  their  fates  are  too  uniformly 
regulated  upon  the  principles  of  retributive  justice  to  be  quite  true 
to  nature. 

It  would  be  absurd,  however,  to  deny  to  her  the  merits  of 
brightness  and  facility  in  constructing  her  stories,  the  power  of 
life-like  description  and  of  vivid  portrayal  of  character,  and  an 
observation  which  grasped  with  truth  and  accuracy  the  salient 
features  of  Irish  life.  Her  Castle  Rackrcfit  has  little  of  connected 
story,  but  it  is  the  most  distinctively  classical  of  all  her  books, 
and  its  vitality  as  a  picture  of  Irish  manners  is  assured.  She  is 
never  at  a  loss  for  incident.  If  she  fails  in  painting  any  sustained 
passion  or  feeling,  she  nevertheless  gives  us  true  pictures  of  quick 
and  varied  impulses,  superficial  perhaps,  but  real  so  far  as  they 


MARIA  EDGE  WORTH  621 

go.  Her  imagination  is  limited,  and  she  seems  often  to  throw 
away  opportunities  for  showing  strong  passion  or  pathos.  She 
has  none  of  the  consummate  dehcacy  of  workmanship  that 
is  the  chief  glory  of  Jane  Austen's  genius.  She  has  just  as  little 
of  the  poetry  and  romance  that  have  given  to  Scott  his 
sovereignty.  She  lacks  even  discrimination  of  feeling,  and 
sometimes  jars  upon  us  by  the  bluntness  with  which  she 
slurs  over  its  finer  subtleties.  But  so  far  as  her  limit  reaches, 
she  is  a  truthful  delineator  ;  sound  in  her  methods,  never  deviating 
into  absurdity,  guided  uniformly  by  good  sense,  and  catching 
with  accuracy  and  readiness  all  salient  features  of  character. 

Her  style  is  easy,  pliant,  and  vigorous  ;  timid,  perhaps,  in  its 
avoidance  of  all  eccentricities,  and  somewhat  overburdened  by 
imitation  of  accredited  literary  models,  but  always  correct,  and 
free  from  tawdriness  and  exaggeration.  Like  the  other  attributes 
of  her  work,  it  shows  earnestness  and  thoroughness  of  care  and 
attention  :  and  we  are  not  surprised,  when  we  watch  the  result,  to 
read  in  one  of  her  father's  prefaces,  that  every  page  of  her  printed 
writings  represents  "  twice  as  many  pages  as  were  written  "  ;  and 
yet  not  the  least  convincing  proof  of  this  care  is  that  she  has 
been  able  to  avoid  any  obtrusive  evidence  of  toil  :  and  that  if  she 
spent  much  labor  linice  she  has  given  no  sign  of  it  in  cumbrous- 
ness  or  pedantry  of  style. 

The  specimens  given  below  are  selected  with  a  view  of  giving 
typical  instances  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  style.  But  perhaps  the 
reader  will  forgive  the  selector  for  the  remark  which,  after  a  very 
full  perusal  of  her  works,  he  feels  compelled  to  make,  that  the 
passage  headed  The  Hibernian  Mendicant  represents  that  style 
at  its  best — and  that  in  it  she  rises  almost  above  herself,  every 
phrase  and  every  word  in  it  showing,  almost  without  a  flaw,  how 
raciness  and  homeliness  of  description  may  be  made  to  fit  the 
sentiment  as  exactly  and  as  perfectly  as  a  glove. 

H.  Craik. 


TYPES   OF   IRISH   LANDLORDS 

Sir  Patrick  died  that  night  :  just  as  the  company  rose  to  drink 
his  health  with  three  cheers,  he  fell  down  in  a  sort  of  fit,  and  was 
carried  off;  they  sat  it  out,  and  were  surprised,  on  inquiry  in  the 
morning,  to  find  that  it  was  all  over  with  poor  Sir  Patrick.  Never 
did  any  gentleman  live  and  die  more  beloved  in  the  country  by 
rich  and  poor.  His  funeral  was  such  a  one  as  was  never  known 
before  or  since  in  the  county.  All  the  gentleman  in  the  three 
counties  were  at  it  ;  far  and  near,  how  they  flocked  :  my  great 
grandfather  said,  that  to  see  all  the  women  even  in  their  red 
cloaks,  you  would  have  taken  them  for  the  army  drawn  out. 
Then  such  a  fine  whillaluh  !  you  might  have  heard  it  to  the 
farthest  end  of  the  county,  and  happy  the  man  who  could  get  but 
a  sight  of  the  hearse  !  But  who'd  have  thought  it  ?  just  as  all 
was  going  on  right,  through  his  own  town  they  were  passing, 
when  the  body  was  seized  for  debt — a  rescue  was  apprehended 
from  the  mob  ;  but  the  heir  who  attended  the  funeral  was  against 
that,  for  fear  of  consequences,  seeing  that  those  villains  who  came 
to  serve  acted  under  the  disguise  of  the  law  :  so,  to  be  sure,  the 
law  must  take  its  course,  and  little  gain  had  the  creditors  for  their 
pains.  First  and  foremost,  they  had  the  curses  of  the  country  : 
and  Sir  Murtagh  Rackrent,  the  new  heir,  in  the  next  place,  on 
account  of  this  affront  to  the  body,  refused  to  pay  a  shilling  of 
the  debts,  in  which  he  was  countenanced  by  all  the  best  gentlemen 
of  property,  and  others  of  his  acquaintance  ;  Sir  Murtagh  alleging 
in  all  companies,  that  he  all  along  meant  to  pay  his  father's  debts 
of  honour,  but  the  moment  the  law  was  taken  of  him,  there  was 
an  end  of  honour  to  be  sure.  It  was  whispered  (but  none  but 
the  enemies  of  the  family  believe  it)  that  this  was  all  a  sham 
seizure  to  get  quit  of  the  debts,  which  he  had  bound  himself  to 
pay  in  honour. 

It's  a  long  time  ago,  there's  no   saying  how  it  was,   but  this 
for  certain,  the  new  man  did  not  take  at  all  after  the  old  gentle- 


MARIA  EDGE  WORTH  623 

man  ;  the  cellars  were  never  filled  after  his  death,  and  no  open 
house,  or  anything  as  it  used  to  be  ;  the  tenants  even  were  sent 
away  without  their  whiskey.  I  was  ashamed  myself,  and  knew 
not  what  to  say  for  the  honour  of  the  family  ;  but  I  made  the  best 
of  a  bad  case,  and  laid  it  all  at  my  lady's  door,  for  I  did  not  like 
her  anyhow,  nor  anybody  else  ;  she  was  of  the  family  of  the 
Skinflints,  and  a  widow  ;  it  was  a  strange  match  for  Sir  Murtagh  ; 
the  people  in  the  countiy  thought  he  demeaned  himself  greatly, 
but  I  said  nothing  :  I  knew  how  it  was  ;  Sir  Murtagh  was  a  great 
lawyer,  and  looked  to  the  great  Skinflint  estate  ;  there,  however 
he  overshot  himself;  for  though  one  of  the  co-heiresses,  he  was 
never  the  better  for  her,  for  she  outlived  him  many's  the  long 
day — he  could  not  see  that  to  be  sure  when  he  married  her.  I 
must  say  for  her,  she  made  him  the  best  of  wives,  beings  a  \ery 
notable  stirring  woman,  and  looking  close  to  everything.  But  I 
always  suspected  she  had  Scotch  blood  in  her  veins  ;  anything 
else  I  could  have  looked  over  in  her  from  a  regard  to  the  family. 
She  was  a  strict  observer  for  self  and  servants  of  Lent,  and  all 
fast  days,  but  not  holidays.  One  of  the  maids  having  fainted 
three  times  the  last  day  of  Lent,  to  keep  soul  and  body  together 
we  put  a  morsel  of  roast  beef  into  her  mouth  which  came  from 
Sir  Murtagh's  dinner,  who  never  fasted,  not  he  ;  but  somehow  or 
other  it  immediately  reached  my  lady's  ears,  and  the  priest  of  the 
parish  had  a  complaint  made  of  it  the  next  day,  and  the  poor  girl 
was  forced  as  soon  as  she  could  walk  to  do  penance  for  it  before 
she  could  get  any  peace  or  absolution  in  the  house  or  out  of  it. 
However,  my  lady  was  very  charitable  in  her  own  way.  She  had 
a  charity  school  for  poor  children,  where  they  were  taught  to  read 
and  write  gratis,  and  where  they  were  kept  well  to  spinning  gratis 
for  my  lady  in  return  ;  for  she  had  always  heaps  of  duty  yarn 
from  the  tenants,  and  got  all  her  household  linen  out  of  the  estate 
from  first  to  last  ;  for,  after  the  spinning,  the  weavers  on  the  estate 
took  it  in  hand  for  nothing,  because  of  the  looms  my  lady's 
interest  could  get  from  the  Linen  Board  to  distribute  gratis. 
Then  there  was  a  bleach-yard  near  us,  and  the  tenant  dare  refuse 
my  lady  nothing,  for  fear  of  a  lawsuit  Sir  Murtagh  kept  hanging 
over  him  about  the  water-course.  With  these  ways  of  managing, 
'tis  surprising  how  cheap  my  lady  got  things  done,  and  how  proud 
she  was  of  it.  Her  table  the  same  way,  kept  for  next  to  nothing  ; 
duty  fowls  and  duty  turkeys,  and  duty  geese,  came  as  fast  as  we 
could  eat  'em,  for  my  lady  kept   a  sharp  look-out,  and  knew  to  a 


624  ENGLISH  PROSE 


tub  of  butter  everything  the  tenants  had,  all  round.  They  knew 
her  way,  and  what  with  fear  of  driving  for  rent  and  Sir  Murtagh's 
lawsuits,  they  were  kept  in  such  good  order,  they  never  thought 
of  coming  near  Castle  Rackrent  without  a  present  of  something  or 
other — nothing  too  much  or  too  little  for  my  lady — eggs,  honey, 
butter,  meal,  fish,  game,  grouse,  and  herrings  fresh  or  salt,  all 
went  for  something.  As  for  their  young  pigs,  we  had  them,  and 
the  best  bacon  and  hams  they  could  make  up,  with  all  young 
chickens  in  spring  ;  but  they  were  a  set  of  poor  wretches,  and  we 
had  nothing  but  misfortunes  with  them,  always  breaking  and 
running  away.  This,  Sir  Murtagh  and  my  lady  said,  was  all  their 
former  landlord.  Sir  Patrick's  fault,  who  let  'em  all  get  the  half 
year's  rent  into  arrear  ;  there  was  something  in  that  to  be  sure. 
But  Sir  Murtagh  was  as  much  the  contrary  way  ;  for  let  alone 
making  English  tenants  of  them,  every  soul,  he  was  always  driving 
and  driving,  and  pounding  and  pounding,  and  canting  and  canting 
and  replevying  and  replevying,  and  he  made  a  good  living  of 
trespassing  cattle  ;  there  was  always  some  tenant's  pig,  or  horse, 
or  cow,  or  calf,  or  goose  trespassing,  which  was  so  great  a  gain 
to  Sir  Murtagh,  that  he  did  not  like  to  hear  me  talk  of  repairing 
fences.  Then  his  heriots  and  duty-work  brought  him  in  some- 
thing, his  turf  was  cut,  his  potatoes  set  and  dug,  his  hay  brought 
home,  and,  in  short,  all  the  work  about  his  house  done  for  nothing  ; 
for  in  all  our  leases  there  were  strict  clauses,  heavy  with  penalties, 
which  Sir  Murtagh  knew  well  how  to  enforce  ;  so  many  days'  duty 
work  of  man  and  horse,  from  every  tenant  he  was  to  have,  and 
had,  every  year  ;  and  when  a  man  vexed  him,  why  the  finest  day 
he  could  pitch  on,  when  the  cratur  was  getting  in  his  own  harvest, 
or  thatching  his  cabin,  Sir  Murtagh  made  it  a  principle  to  call 
upon  him  and  his  horse  ;  so  he  taught  'em  all,  as  he  said,  to  know 
the  law  of  landlord  and  tenant.  As  for  law,  I  believe  no  man, 
dead  or  ahve,  ever  loved  it  so  well  as  Sir  Murtagh.  He  had 
once  sixteen  suits  pending  at  a  time,  and  I  never  saw  him  so 
much  himself ;  roads,  lanes,  bogs,  wells,  ponds,  eel-wires,  orchards, 
trees,  tithes,  vagrants,  gravel-pits,  sand-pits,  dunghills,  and 
nuisances,  everything  upon  the  face  of  the  earth  furnished  him 
good  matter  for  a  suit.  He  used  to  boast  he  had  a  lawsuit  for 
every  letter  in  the  alphabet.  How  I  used  to  wonder  to  see  Sir 
Murtagh  in  the  midst  of  the  papers  in  his  ofiice  !  Why  he  could 
hardly  turn  about  for  them.  I  made  bold  to  shrug  my  shoulders 
once  in  his  presence,  and  thanked  my  stars   I   was  not  born  a 


MARIA  EDGEIVORTH  625 


gentleman  to  so  much  toil  and  trouble  ;  but  Sir  Murtagh  took 
me  up  short  with  his  old  proverb,  "  Learning  is  better  than  house 
or  land."  Out  of  forty-nine  suits  which  he  had,  he  never  lost 
one  but  seventeen  ;  the  rest  he  gained  with  costs,  double  costs, 
treble  costs  sometimes  ;  but  even  that  did  not  pay.  He  was  a 
very  learned  man  in  the  law,  and  had  the  character  of  it  ;  but 
how  it  was  I  can't  tell,  these  suits  that  he  carried  cost  him  a 
power  of  money  ;  in  the  end  he  sold  some  hundreds  a  year  of 
the  family  estate  ;  but  he  was  a  very  learned  man  in  the  law, 
and  I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,  except  having  a  great  regard 
for  the  family  ;  and  I  could  not  help  grieving  when  he  sent  me 
to  post  up  notices  of  the  sale  of  the  fee-simple  of  the  lands  and 
appurtenances  of  Timoleague.  "  I  know,  honest  Thady,"  says 
he,  to  comfort  me,  "  what  I'm  about  better  than  you  do  ;  I'm  only 
selling  to  get  the  ready  money  wanting  to  carry  on  my  suit  with 
spirit  with  the  Nugents  of  Carrickashaughlin. 

He  was  very  sanguine  about  that  suit  with  the  Nugents  of 
Carrickashaughlin.  He  could  have  gained  it,  they  say,  for 
certain,  had  it  pleased  Heaven  to  have  spared  him  to  us,  and  it 
would  have  been,  at  the  least,  a  plump  two  thousand  a  year  in 
his  way  ;  but  things  were  ordered  otherwise,  for  the  best  to  be 
sure.  He  dug  up  a  fairy-mount  against  my  advice,  and  had  no 
luck  afterwards.  Though  a  learned  man  in  the  law,  he  was  a 
little  too  incredulous  in  other  matters.  I  warned  him  that  1 
heard  the  very  banshee  that  my  grandfather  heard  under  Sir 
Patrick's  window  a  few  days  before  his  death.  But  Sir  Murtagh 
thought  nothing  of  the  banshee  nor  of  his  cough  with  a  spitting  of 
blood,  brought  on,  I  understand,  by  catching  cold  in  attending 
the  courts,  and  overstraining  his  chest  with  making  himself  heard 
in  one  of  his  favourite  causes.  He  was  a  great  speaker  with  a 
powerful  voice  ;  but  his  last  speech  was  not  in  the  courts  at  all. 
He  and  my  lady,  though  both  of  the  same  way  of  thinking  in 
some  things,  and  though  she  was  as  good  a  wife  and  great 
economist  as  you  could  see,  and  he  the  best  of  husbands,  as  to 
looking  into  his  affairs,  and  making  money  for  his  family  ;  yet  I 
don't  know  how  it  was,  they  had  a  great  deal  of  sparring  and 
jarring  between  them.  My  lady  had  her  privy  purse — and  she 
had  her  weed  ashes,  and  her  sealing  money  upon  the  signing  of 
all  the  leases,  with  something  to  buy  gloves  besides  ;  and,  besides, 
again  often  took  money  from  the  tenants,  if  offered  properly,  to 
speak  for  them  to  Sir   Murtagli  about  abatements  and  renewals. 

vol..  IV  2  s 


626  ENGLISH  PROSE 


Now  the  weed  ashes  and  the  glove  money  he  allowed  her  clear 
perquisites  ;  though  once  when  he  saw  her  in  a  gown  saved  out 
of  the  weed  ashes,  he  told  her  to  my  face  (for  he  could  say  a 
sharp  thing),  that  she  should  not  put  on  her  weeds  before  her 
husband's  death.  But  in  a  dispute  about  an  abatement,  my  lady 
would  have  the  last  word,  and  Sir  Murtagh  grew  mad  ;  I  was 
within  hearing  of  the  door,  and  now  I  wish  I  had  made  bold  to 
step  in.  He  spoke  so  loud,  the  whole  kitchen  was  out  on  the 
stairs.  All  on  a  sudden  he  stopped  and  my  lady  too.  Some- 
thing has  surely  happened,  thought  I — ^and  so  it  was,  for  Sir 
Murtagh  in  his  passion  broke  a  bloodvessel,  and  all  the  law  in 
the  land  could  do  nothing  in  that  case.  My  lady  sent  for  five 
physicians,  but  Sir  Murtagh  died,  and  was  buried.  She  had  a 
fine  jointure  settled  upon  her,  and  took  herself  away,  to  the  great 
joy  of  the  tenantry.  I  never  said  anything  one  way  or  the  other, 
whilst  she  was  part  of  the  family,  but  got  up  to  see  her  go  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  "  It's  a  fine  morning,  honest 
Thady  "  says  she  ;  "  good-bye  to  you,"  and  into  the  carriage  she 
stepped,  without  a  word  more  good  or  bad,  or  even  half-a-crown  ; 
but  I  made  my  bow,  and  stood  to  see  her  safe  out  of  sight  for 
the  sake  of  the  family.  (P^.^^^^  Castle  Rackrcnt.) 


THE   HIBERNIAN    MENDICANT 

Perhaps  the  reader  may  wish  to  see-as  well  as  hear  the  petitioner. 
At  first  view  you  might  have  taken  him  for  a  Spaniard.  He  was 
tall ;  and  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman,  you  would  have  said  that 
there  was  an  air  of  dignity  in  his  figure.  He  seemed  very  old, 
yet  he  appeared  more  worn  by  sorrow  than  by  time.  Leaning 
upon  a  thick  oaken  stick  as  he  took  off  his  hat  to  ask  for  alms, 
his  white  hair  was  blown  by  the  wind. 

"  Health  and  long  life  to  you  !  "  said  he.  "  Give  an  old  man 
something  to  help  to  bury  him.  He  is  past  his  labour,  and 
cannot  trouble  this  world  long  any  way." 

He  held  his  hat  towards  us,  with  nothing  importunate  in  his 
manner,  but  rather  with  a  look  of  confidence  in  us,  mixed  with 
habitual  resignation.  His  thanks  were  "Heaven  bless  you! — 
Long  life  and  success  to  you  !  to  you  and  yours  !  and  may  you 
never  want  a  friend  as  I  do." 


MARIA   EDGEIVORTH  627 

These  last  words  were  spoken  low.  He  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  heart  as  he  bowed  to  us,  and  walked  slowly  away.  We 
called  him  back  ;  and  upon  our  questioning  him  furtlier,  he  gave 
the  following  account  of  himself 

"  I  was  bred  and  born — but  no  matter  where  such  a  one  as  I 
was  bred  and  born,  no  more  than  where  I  may  die  and  be  buried, 
1,  that  have  neither  son,  nor  daughter,  nor  kin,  nor  friend,  on  the 
wide  earth,  to  mourn  over  my  grave  when  I  am  laid  in  it,  as  I 
soon  must.  Well  !  when  it  pleases  God  to  take  me,  I  shall  never 
be  missed  out  of  this  world,  so  much  as  by  a  dog  ;  and  why 
should  I  ? — having  never  in  my  life  done  good  to  any — but  evil — 
which  I  have  lived  to  repent  me  of  many's  the  long  day  and 
night,  and  ever  shall  whilst  I  have  sense  and  reason  left.  In  my 
youthful  days  God  was  too  good  to  me  :  I  had  friends  and  a 
little  home  of  my  own  to  go  to — a  pretty  spot  of  land  for  a  farm, 
as  you  could  see,  with  a  snug  cabin,  and  everything  complete, 
and  all  to  be  mine  ;  for  I  was  the  only  one  my  father  and  mother 
had,  and  accordingly  was  made  much  of,  too  much  ;  for  I  grew 
headstrong  upon  it  and  high,  and  thought  nothing  of  any  man, 
and  little  of  any  woman  but  one.  That  one  I  surely  did  think  of ; 
and  well  worth  thinking  of  she  was.  Beauty,  they  say,  is  all 
fancy  ;  but  she  was  a  girl  every  man  might  fancy.  Never  was 
one  more  sought  after.  She  was  then  just  in  her  prime,  and  full 
of  life  and  spirits  ;  but  nothing  light  in  her  behaviour — quite 
modest — yet  obliging.  She  was  too  good  for  me  to  be  thinking 
of,  no  doubt  ;  but  '  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,'  so  I  made 
bold  to  speak  to  Rose,  for  that  was  her  name,  and  after  a  world 
of  pains,  I  began  to  gain  upon  her  good  liking,  but  couldn't  get 
her  to  say  more  than  she  had  never  seen  the  man  she  should 
fancy  so  well.  This  was  a  great  deal  from  her,  for  she  was  coy 
and  proud-like,  as  she  had  a  good  right  to  be  ;  and,  besides  being 
young,  loved  her  little  innocent  pleasure,  and  could  not  easy  be 
brought  to  give  up  her  sway.  No  fault  of  hers  :  but  all  very 
natural.  Well  !  I  always  considered  she  never  would  have  held 
out  so  long,  nor  have  been  so  stiff  with  me  had  it  not  been  for  an 
old  aunt  Honour  of  hers — God  rest  her  soul !  One  should  not 
be  talking  ill  of  the  dead  ;  but  she  was  more  out  of  my  way  than 
enough  ;  yet  the  cratur  had  no  malice  in  her  against  me,  only 
meaning  her  child's  good,  as  she  called  it,  but  mistook  it,  and 
thought  to  make  Rose  happy  by  some  greater  match  than  me, 
counting  her  fondness  for  me,  which  she  could  not  but  sec  some- 


628  ENGLISH  PROSE 


thing  of,  childishness,  which  she  would  soon  be  broke  of.  Now 
there  was  a  party  of  English  soldiers  quartered  in  our  town  and 
there  was  a  sergeant  amongst  them,  that  had  money  and  a  pretty 
place,  as  they  said,  in  his  own  countiy.  He  courted  Rose,  and 
the  aunt  favoured  him.  He  was  a  handsome  portly  man,  but 
very  proud,  and  looked  upon  me  as  dirt  under  his  feet,  because  I 
was  an  Irishman  ;  and  at  every  word  would  say,  '  That's  an  Irish 
bull ! '  or  'Do  you  hear  Paddy's  brogue  ? '  at  which  his  fellow 
soldiers,  being  all  English,  would  look  greatly  delighted.  Now 
all  this  I  could  have  taken  in  good  part  from  any  but  him,  for  I 
was  not  an  ill-humoured  fellow  ;  but  there  was  a  spite  in  him  I 
plainly  saw  against  me,  and  I  could  not,  nor  would  not  take  a 
word  from  him  against  me  or  my  country,  especially  when  Rose 
was  by,  who  did  not  like  me  the  worse  for  having  a  proper  spirit. 
She  little  thought  what  would  come  of  it.  Whilst  all  this  was 
going  on,  her  aunt  Honour  found  to  object  against  me,  that  I  was 
wild,  and  given  to  drink  ;  both  which  charges  were  false  and 
malicious,  and  I  knew  could  come  from  none  other  than  the 
sergeant,  which  enraged  me  the  more  against  him  for  speaking  so 
mean  behind  my  back.  Now  I  know,  that  though  the  sergeant 
did  not  drink  spirits,  he  drank  plenty  of  beer.  Rose  took  it, 
however,  to  heart  and  talked  very  serious  upon  it,  observing  she 
could  never  marry  a  man  given  to  drink,  and  that  the  sergeant 
was  remarkably  sober  and  staid,  therefore  most  like,  as  her  aunt 
Honour  said,  to  make  a  good  husband.  The  words  went  straight 
to  my  heart,  along  with  Rose's  look.  1  said  not  a  word,  but 
went  out,  resolving,  before  I  slept,  to  take  an  oath  against  spirits 
of  all  sorts  for  Rose's  sweet  sake.  That  evening  I  fell  in  with 
some  boys  of  the  neighbours,  who  would  have  had  me  along 
with  them,  but  I  denied  myself  and  them  ;  and  all  I  would  taste 
was  one  parting  glass,  and  then  made  my  vow  in  the  presence  of 
the  priest,  forswearing  spirits  for  two  years.  Then  I  went 
straight  to  her  house  to  tell  her  what  I  had  done,  not  being 
sensible  that  I  was  at  that  time  a  little  elevated  with  the  parting 
glass  I  had  taken.  The  first  thing  I  noticed  on  going  into  the 
room  was  the  man  I  least  wished  to  see  there,  and  least  looked  for 
at  this  minute  :  he  was  in  high  talk  with  the  aunt,  and  Rose  sitting 
on  the  other  side  of  him,  no  way  strange  towards  him,  as  I  fancied ; 
but  that  was  only  fancy,  and  effect  of  the  liquor  I  had  drunk,  which 
made  me  see  things  wrong.  I  went  up,  and  put  my  head  between 
them,  asking  Rose  did  she  know  what  I  had  been  about  'i 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH  629 

"  '  Yes  ;  too  well  ! '  said  she,  drawing  l^ack  from  my  breath. 
And  the  aunt  looked  at  her,  and  she  at  the  aunt,  and  the 
sergeant  stopped  his  nose,  saying  he  had  not  been  long  enough 
in  Ireland  to  love  the  smell  of  whiskey.  I  observed,  that 
was  an  uncivil  remark  in  the  present  company,  and  added,  that 
I  had  not  taken  a  drop  that  night,  but  one  glass.  At  which  he 
sneered,  and  said  that  was  a  bull  and  a  blunder,  but  no  wonder, 
as  I  was  an  Irishman.  I  replied  in  defence  of  myself  and  my 
country.  We  went  on  from  one  smart  word  to  another ;  and 
some  of  his  soldier  men  being  of  the  company,  he  had  the  laugh 
against  me  still.  I  was  vexed  to  see  Rose  bear  so  well  what 
I  could  not  bear  myself.  And  the  talk  grew  higher  and  higher  ; 
and  from  talking  of  blunders  and  such  trifles,  we  got,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how,  on  to  great  party  matters,  and  politics,  and  religion. 
And  I  was  a  Catholic,  and  he  a  Protestant  ;  and  there  he  had 
the  thing  still  against  me.  The  company  seeing  matters  not 
agreeable,  dropped  off  till  none  were  left  but  the  sergeant,  and 
the  aunt,  and  Rose,  and  myself.  The  aunt  gave  me  a  hint  to 
part,  but  I  would  not  take  it  ;  for  I  could  not  bear  to  go  away 
worsted,  and  being  borne  down  as  it  were  by  the  English  faction, 
and  Rose  by  to  judge.  The  aunt  was  called  out  by  one  who 
wanted  her  to  go  to  a  funeral  next  day  :  the  Englishman  then 
let  fall  something  about  our  Irish  howl,  and  savages,  which 
Rose  herself  said  was  uncivil,  she  being  an  Irishwoman,  which 
he,  thinking  only  of  making  game  on  me,  had  forgot.  I  knocked 
him  down,  telling  him  that  it  was  he  that  was  the  savage  to 
affront  a  lady.  As  he  got  up  he  said  that  he'd  have  the  law 
of  me,  if  any  law  was  to  be  had  in  Ireland. 

"  '  The  law  ! '  said  I,  '  and  you  a  soldier  I ' 

"'  Do  you  mean  to  call  me  a  coward?'  said  he.  'This  is 
what  an  English  soldier  must  not  bear.'  With  that  he  snatches 
at  his  arms  that  were  beside  him,  asking  me  again,  '  did  I  mean 
to  call  an  Englishman  coward  ? ' 

"'Tell  me  first,'  said  I,  'did  you  mean  to  call  us  Irish 
savages  ? ' 

"  '  That's  no  answer  to  my  question,'  says  he,  '  or  only  an 
Irish  answer.' 

"  '  It  is  not  the  worse  for  that,  may  be,'  says  I,  very  coolly, 
despising  the  man  now,  and  just  took  up  a  knife,  that  was  on 
the  table,  to  cut  oft"  a  button  that  was  hanging  at  my  knee. 
As  I  was  opening  the  knife   he  asks  me,  was    I   going    to  stab   at 


630  ENGLISH  PROSE 


him  with  my  Irish  knife,  and  directly  fixes  a  bayonet  at  me  ; 
on  which  I  seizes  a  musket  and  bayonet  one  of  his  men  had 
left,  telling  him  I  knew  the  use  of  it  as  well  as  he  or  any 
Englishman,  and  better ;  for  that  I  should  never  have  gone, 
as  he  did,  to  charge  it  against  an  unarmed  man. 

"  '  You  had  your  knife,'  said  he,  drawing  back. 

"  '  If  I  had,  it  was  not  thinking  of  you,'  said  I,  throwing  the 
knife  away.  '  See  !  I'm  armed  like  yourself  now  :  fight  like  a 
man  and  a  soldier,  if  you  dare,'  says  I. 

"  '  Fight  me,  if  you  dare,'  says  he. 

"  Rose  calls  to  me  to  stop  ;  but  we  were  both  out  of  ourselves 
at  the  minute.  We  thrust  at  each  other — he  missed  me — I  hit 
him.  Rose  ran  in  between  us  to  get  the  musket  from  my  hand  : 
it  was  loaded,  and  went  off  in  the  struggle,  and  the  ball  lodged 
in  her  body.  She  fell  !  and  what  happened  next  I  cannot  tell, 
for  the  sight  left  my  eyes,  and  all  sense  forsook  me.  When  I 
came  to  myself  the  house  was  full  of  people,  going  to  and  fro, 
some  whispering,  some  crying  ;  and  till  the  words  reached  my 
ears,  'Is  she  quite  dead?'  I  could  not  understand  where  I  was, 
or  what  had  happened.  I  wished  to  forget  again,  but  could  not. 
The  whole  truth  came  upon  me,  and  yet  I  could  not  shed  a 
tear  !  but  just  pushed  my  way  through  the  crowd  into  the  inner 
room,  and  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  There  she  lay  stretched, 
almost  a  corpse- — cjuite  still  !  Her  sweet  eyes  closed,  and  no 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  that  had  been  so  rosy  !  I  took  hold  of 
one  of  her  hands,  that  hung  down,  and  she  then  opened  her 
eyes,  and  knew  me  directly,  and  smiles  upon  me,  and  says,  '  It 
was  no  fault  of  yours  :  take  notice,  all  of  you,  it  was  no  fault 
of  his  if  I  die  ;  but  that  I  won't  do  for  his  sake,  if  I  can  help 
it  ! ' — that  was  the  last  word  she  spoke.  I  thinking,  from  her 
speaking  so  strong,  that  she  was  not  badly  hurt  knelt  down 
to  whisper  to  her,  that  if  my  breath  did  smell  of  spirits,  it  was 
the  parting  glass  I  had  tasted  before  making  the  vows  I  had 
done  against  drink  for  her  sake  ;  and  that  there  was  nothing  I 
would  not  do  for  her,  if  it  would  please  God  to  spare  her  to 
me.  She  just  pressed  my  hand,  to  show  me  she  was  sensible. 
The  priest  came  in,  and  they  forced  our  hands  asunder,  and 
carried  me  away  out  of  the  room.  Presently  there  was  a  great 
cry,  and  I  knew  all  was  over." 

Here  the  old  man's  voice  failed,  and  he  turned  his  face 
from  us.      \\'hen   he  had  somewhat   recovered  himself,  to  change 


MARIA  EDGEWORril  631 

the  course  of  his  thoughts,  we  asked  whether  he  were  prosecuted 
for  his  assault  on  the  English  sergeant,  and  what  became  of 
him  ? 

"  Oh  1  to  do  him  justice,  as  one  should  do  to  eveiyone," 
said  the  old  man,  "  he  behaved  very  handsome  to  me  when  I 
was  brought  to  trial  ;  and  told  the  whole  truth,  only  blamed 
himself  more  than  I  would  have  done,  and  said  it  was  all  his 
fault  for  laughing  at  me  and  my  nation  more  than  a  man  could 
bear,  situated  as  I  was.  They  acquitted  me  through  his  means. 
We  shook  hands,  and  he  hoped  all  would  go  right  with  me,  he 
said  ;  but  nothing  ever  went  right  with  me  after.  I  took  little 
note  ever  after  of  worldly  matters  :  all  belonging  to  me  went  to 
wrack  and  ruin.  The  hand  of  God  was  upon  me  :  1  could  not 
help  myself,  nor  settle  mind  or  body  to  anything.  I  heard  them 
say  sometimes  I  was  a  little  touched  in  my  head  :  however  that 
might  be  I  cannot  say.  But  at  the  last  I  found  it  was  as  good 
for  me  to  give  all  that  was  left  to  my  friends,  who  were  better 
able  to  manage,  and  more  eager  for  it  than  I  ;  and  fancying  a 
roving  life  would  agree  with  me  best,  I  quitted  the  place, 
taking  nothing  with  me,  but  resolved  to  walk  the  world,  and 
just  trust  to  the  charity  of  good  Christians,  or  die,  as  it  should 
please  God.  How  I  have  li\ed  so  long  He  only  knows,  and 
His  will  be  done."  (From  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls.-) 


THE    BORE 

A  BORE  is  a  biped,  but  not  always  unplumed.  There  be  of 
both  kinds  ; — the  female  frequently  plumed,  the  male -military, 
plumed,  helmed,  or  crested,  and  whisker-faced,  hairy.  Dandy  bore, 
ditto,  ditto,  ditto.  There  are  bores  unplumed,  capped,  or  hatted, 
curled,  or  uncurled,  bearded  and  beardless. 

The  bore  is  not  a  ruminating  animal,  —  carnivorous,  not 
sagacious,  prosing',  long-winded,  tenacious  of  life,  though  not 
vivacious.  The  bore  is  good  for  promoting  sleep  ;  but  though 
he  causeth  sleep  in  others  it  is  uncertain  whether  he  ever  sleeps 
himself;  as  few  can  keep  awake  in  his  company  long  enough 
to  see.  It  is  supposed  that  when  he  sleeps  it  is  \\\\\\  his  mouth 
open. 

The   bore    is    usually  considered    a    harmless    creature,    or    of 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


that  class  of  irrational  bipeds  who  hurt  only  themselves.  To 
such,  however,  I  would  not  advise  trusting  too  much.  The 
bore  is  harmless,  no  doubt,  as  long  as  you  listen  to  him  ;  but 
disregarded,  or  stopped  in  mid  career,  he  will  turn  upon  you. 
It  is  a  fatal,  if  not  a  vulgar  error,  to  presume  that  the  iDore 
belongs  to  that  class  of  animals  that  have  no  gall  ;  of  which 
Pliny  gives  a  list  (much  disputed  by  Sir  Thomas  Brown"e  and 
others).  That  bores  have  gall,  many  have  proved  to  their  cost, 
as  some  now  living,  peradventure,  can  attest.  The  milk  of 
human  kindness  is  said  to  abound  naturally  in  certain  of  the 
gentler  bore  kind  ;  but  it  is  apt  to  grow  sour  if  the  animal  be 
crossed,  not  in  love,  but  in  talk.  Though  I  cannot  admit  to  a 
certainty  that  all  bores  have  not  gall,  yet  assuredly  they  have 
no  tact,  and  they  are  one  and  all  deficient  in  sympathy. 

A  bore  is  a  heavy  animal,  and  his  weight  has  this  peculiarity, 
that  it  increases  every  moment  he  stays  near  you.  The  French 
describe  this  property  in  one  word,  which,  though  French,  I  may 
be  permitted  to  quote,  because  untranslatable,  //  s\T.ppesa?iftf. 
Touch  and  go,  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  a  bore  to  do — whatever 
he  touches  turns  to  lead. 

Much  learning  might  be  displayed,  and  much  time  wasted, 
on  an  inquiry  into  the  derivation,  descent,  and  etymology  of 
the  animal  under  consideration.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  for  my 
own  part,  diligence  hath  not  been  wanting  in  the  research. 
Johnson's  Dictionary  and  old  Bailey  have  been  ransacked  ;  but 
neither  the  learned  Johnson  nor  the  recondite  Bailey,  throw 
much  light  upon  this  matter.  The  Slang  Dictionary,  to  which 
I  should  in  the  first  place  have  directed  my  attention,  was 
unfortunately  not  within  my  reach.  The  result  of  all  my  inquiries 
amounts  to  this  —  that  "bore,"  "boor,"  and  "boar,"  are  all 
three  spelt  indifferently,  and  consequently  are  derived  from  one 
common  stock, — what  stock  remains  to  be  determined.  1  could 
give  a  string  of  far-fetched  derivations,  each  of  them  less  to 
the  purpose  than  the  other ;  but  I  prefer,  according  to  the 
practice  of  our  great  lexicographer,  taking  refuge  at  once  in  the 
Coptic. 

Of  one  point  tliere  can  be  little  doubt, — that  bores  existed 
in  ancient  as  well  as  modern  times,  though  the  Deluge  has 
unluckily  swept  away  all  traces  of  the  antediluvian  bores  —  a 
creature  which  analogy  leads  us  to  believe  must  have  been  of 
formidable  power. 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH  633 

We  find  them  for  certain  in  the  clays  of  Horace.  That 
plague,  worse  as  he  describes,  than  asthma  or  rheumatism,  that 
prating,  praising  thing  which  caught  him  in  the  street,  stuck  to 
him  wherever  he  went — of  which,  stopping  or  running,  civil 
or  rude,  shirking  or  cutting,  he  could  never  rid  himself — what 
was  he  but  a  bore  ? 

In  Pope  I  read  the  first  description  in  English  poetry  of 
the  animal — whether  imitated  from  Horace,  or  a  drawing  from 
life,  may  be  cjuestioned.  But  what  could  that  creature  be  but 
a  bore,  from  whom  he  says  no  walls  could  guard  him,  and  no 
shades  could  hide  ;  who  pierced  his  thickets  ;  glided  into  his 
grotto  ;  stopped  his  chariot  ;  boarded  his  barge  ;  from  whom 
no  place  was  sacred — not  the  church  free  ;  and  against  whom 
John  was  ordered  to  tie  up  the  knocker. 

Through  the  indexes  to  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  1  have  not 
neglected  to  hunt  ;  but  unfortunately,  I  have  found  nothing  to 
my  purpose  in  Milton,  and  in  all  Shakespeare  no  trace  of  a 
bore :  except  it  be  that  thing,  that  popinjay,  who  so  pestered 
Hotspur,  that  day  when  he,  faint  with  toil  and  dry  with  rage, 
was  leaning  on  his  sword  after  the  battle — all  that  bald,  dis- 
jointed talk,  to  which  Hotspur,  past  his  patience,  answered 
neglectingly,  he  knew  not  what,  and  that  sticking  to  him  with 
questions,  even  when  his  wounds  were  cold.  It  must  have 
been  a  bore  of  foreign  breed,  not  the  good  downright  English  bore. 

fFrom  T/ioughts  on  Bores.) 


NOTES 


I'AGE 
91- 


239- 


243- 


266. 


343- 


Ic  coglioncric  —  trifles  or  light 
nonsense. 

morbidezza  =  delicacy,  softness. 

author  of  "  Christianity  as  Old 
as  the  Creation."  Matthew 
Tindal,  Fellow  of  All  Souls, 
one  of  the  Dcistical  School. 

Tom  Dnnvns  of  the  mob.  Thomas 
Brown  (1663-1704)  was  a  well 
known  author  of  miscellaneous 
scurrilities,  by  which  he  con- 
trived to  hnk  his  name  with 
men  of  note  of  the  time,  from 
Dryden  downwards. 

Mente  quatit  Carthusiana.  Al- 
tering the  words  of  Horace, 
"mente  quatit  solida,"  in 
order  to  commemorate  his 
connection  with  the  Charter- 
house. 

Ccclum  ipsum. petimzis,  etc.  "In 
our  folly  we  seek  heaven  itself.' ' 
The  remaining  words  ("and 
liere  I  proclaim  war  against 
my  belly")  are  an  addition  to 
the  words  of  Horace,  as  inept 

as  the  alteration  of  Sir   T 

D . 

Qui  me  commorit,  etc.  ' '  Hut  he 
who  has  provoked  me  (I  give 
him  warning  that  he  had  better 
leave  me  alone)  will  have  cause 
to  weep,  and  will  be  the  theme 
of  many  a  verse  throughout 
the  city's  bounds." 

Quantum  vertice  ad  auras,  etc. 


' '  Far  as  with  his  top  he  reaches 
to  the  breezes  of  the  air,  so  far 
with  his  root,  he  pieixes  to  the 
nether  regions. ' ' 

351.  To  the  pincushion-makers.  For 
sawdust.  Rosemary  Lane,  or 
Rag  Fair,  in  Whitechapel, 
was  a  centre  of  this  industry. 

351.    to  be  =  io  contribute  or  subscribe. 

360.  the  horns  =  \.\\e  French  horns,  a 

special  feature  of  the  Vau.xhall 
]irogramme. 

361.  ///(•    water.      The    approach     to 

Vauxhall  from  the  Middlesex 
side  was  by  wherry. 

362.  the    iijater-iijo7-ks.      A    "  moving 

picture"  with  a  cascade,  that 
worked  for  a  few  minutes. 

363.  the  painting.    The  pictures  in  the 

supper-boxes  were  by  Hogarth 
and  Hayman. 

366.  Count  Abensberg.  Babo,  Count 
of  Abensberg  in  Bavaria,  had 
thirty  sons  and  seven  daughters 
[Monutnenta  Boica,  .\iii.  477). 

371.  my  brother.  The  Rev.  Henry 
Goldsmith,  who  died  in  1768. 

384.  Abeutit  studia  in  mo?-es.  Burke 
seems  to  read  these  words  in 
the  sense,  ' '  Studies  issue  in 
the  formation  of  habits."  This 
is  scarcely  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase  which  Ovid  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  Sappho  (Her. 
lOp.  .XV.  83).  In  her  Apologia 
Sappho    suggests  as  one  ex- 


6;6 


ENGLISH  PROSE 


planation  of  her  readiness  to 
submit  to  the  sway  of  passion, 
' '  Or  whether  it  be  that  the 
impulses  of  nature  turn  to 
habits,  and  become  wiles  that 
act  a  tyrant's  part." 
Diim  doniKs  .-Enexr,  etc.  As 
long  as  the  house  of  ^neas 
occupies  the  Capitol'sunmoved 
rock,  and  the  Roman  sire 
holds  sway"  {/E71.  ix.  448). 
KaKh  Oripia,  etc.  "  Evil  beasts, 
slow  bellies." 
449.  Dii per qiios penitus,c\.C-.  "Gods, 
to  whom  we  owe  our  inmost 
breath,     through    whom    we 


418. 


432. 


have  our  body,  and  by  whom 
we  possess  reason.  Gods  who 
dwell  altogether  and  in  the 
inmost  shrines  of  heaven. " 

452.  A  heathen  poet.  Senega  in  his 
Medea. 
Says  the  infidel.  This  is  Anthony 
Collins,  who  achieved  a  certain 
kind  of  immortality  as  the  butt 
of  Swift. 

474.  Hie  mums  akeneus  esto,  etc. 
"  Be  this  a  brazen  wall  of 
defence — to  have  no  twinge  of 
conscience,  and  no  hidden 
crime  to  make  one  pale." 


^f 


END    OF    VOL.    IV 


Printed  tiy  R.  &  K.  Clark,  Edinburg/i. 


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